Nails
by cazh
Summary: Matt is greatly upset for a very good reason.
1. Chapter 1

NAILS

The characters are not mine, they belong to CBS/ViaCom.

Matt

1

Matt Dillon looked anxiously at the livery stable opposite his cinder block building through the four inch opening he'd left between door and jam. Not much of a look but just to give him a full on look from his office. Seeing nothing moving across the street, he let out a heavy breath before sidestepping to the window to his left. The view wasn't at all different. But he looked anyway.

He turned, walked past his cluttered desk. Back to his narrow cot. And for the umpteenth time since Harry delivered the telegram last night, smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles from the rough woolen blanket with the palms of his hands.

The cells were empty but he paced into that part of the office to check on the nonexistent prisoners anyway before going back to the street door once again. Closing it this time. Then opening it four inches.

Just how many times he'd done these same moves he didn't recollect but he did know that each repetition kept company with a disquieting, gnawing hollowness in his stomach.

As he waited.

For the arrival.

Life went on outside the confines of his office. It was a beautiful Fall day. Mild. The sun in its yellow brilliance shone against a cloudless sky. Dodge City's people chatted as they moved along the boardwalks and dusty streets with a serenity they hadn't felt since the cattle trade ended in August.

Matt envied each one of those people.

The sound of dry axles and a tug in the rotation of one of the wheels caught his attention. That didn't come from any of his people.

Not venturing outside, he took a look through that slight opening onto the street.

A black buggy, its canopy pushed down behind the driver, pulled up in front of the livery. He watched as Stuart Haynes stepped down from the dainty two seater.

Matt could tell a lot about a man just by watching him. Haynes was unaware of how far the ground was from the step. He almost fell backwards into the street. Clumsy, the man hung on so his pride would not be lost along with his balance.

The Warden ran his prison with a firm but fair hand. That was what he was comfortable with not a horse and buggy.

Haynes didn't wait for old Hank to amble through the weathered side door of the stable, simply tossed the long leather reins to the urine-soaked dirt at the fore of the water trough.

Only then did the round bellied man take the time to brush the Kansas dust from his well tailored pin stripped suit.

When Stuart directed his gaze to Matt's door Matt instinctively backed farther inside.

But not before he saw that fortifying intake of air, the slowness of its release, then the determination on Haynes' face.

Each step Haynes took was like a ticking clock that reverberated inside Matt's chest. Even the clop of big footed horses got lost in the din created by his own heart. The busy chatter of the board walkers melted into nothing more than a drone.

Matt pulled the door wide open and glared down at the Warden with a mix of fear, confusion, desperation, and hate.

Haynes looked up before brushing past Matt and into the darker interior of the cinder block building. He took off his dusty narrow brimmed hat and threw it carelessly on the square table before turning to face Matt.

"Felt you needed to hear this face to face, Matt."

Matt closed the door.

"You're not going to like what I have to say."

Matt considered laughing. But knew, once he started, he wouldn't be able to stop. The nervous guffaws would turn to hysterics. Then he'd have to be locked up in his own jail until he calmed down or put into one of those fancy straight jackets . He didn't anticipate ever calming down.

The truth of it all lay in the Warden's physical presence. Why would this man make a forty mile journey, one way, for a simple social call? This was going to be bad.

"Tell me. Straight."

Matt didn't want to know.

But he had to know. Needed to know.

"There's been some trouble in Houston. Miss Russell is missing."

_No!_

_Not after everything else._


	2. Chapter 2

Nails

-2-

Kitty

14 months previous

Men were a funny lot. Some swaggered and boasted while others turned ten shades between pink and red. All because of her. She knew she was a good looking woman. Knew also that her shape was especially appealing to men. Although she smiled and flashed her dazzling azure eyes she never actively pursued the attentions of men. Not most men, anyway.

She was in a business that catered to men's vices. Whiskey. Gambling. And just how much her sex contributed to her prosperity was not a well kept secret. A good number of men chose to put their feet on the rail of the bar simply because they wanted a look at the lady bar keep. And, she was realistic, maybe to dream of what might come about if she took them up the stairs to her room.

Not all men were pleasant or even respectful. Some where unusual. Some, forgettable.

That described the three men who graced her bar on this Tuesday morning.

With light bronze fuzz on his sallow cheeks as fine and soft as baby hair, one male lifted, then dropped his head with quick glances at her own rouged cheeks. He even giggled when she placed a dripping mug of beer on the bar directly in front of him.

The second man was older. Old enough, in her judgement, to be the father of the other two. But the only resemblance the trio shared was the patina of trail dust embellishing face, hands, and clothing.

The third man troubled her from the moment he walked through the swinging doors and laid eyes on her. He wanted her attention. He swaggered, bumping into empty chairs. He talked loud, his cruelly shaped mouth bragging about himself. Even before he bellied up to the bar she downright despised and hated him as he evaluated what was hidden beneath her clothing.

He let a nickel clatter to the bar as she set the beer in front of him. But he took more than a nickel's worth of the fullness of her bodice and even peaked over the bar to catch the shape of her hips.

This one was no friend to women.

She did her duty, pulled the beer, served it to them. Then moved quickly to the end of the bar. She felt him watching as she began the tedious task of washing and drying the dirty glassware from last night's crowd. Jerry was here, he could refill their glasses, take their money.

Kitty let the glasses fall against each other in the sudsy water in an attempt to create a noise to drown the voice of Loudmouth.

She didn't succeed.

This man bragged and everyone in the saloon was a captive.

He was an expert on everything.

Whiskey: the Long Branch rye was tolerable.

Saloons: the Long Branch was better than most.

Bartenders.

That's where he cast a lascivious glance to the far end of the bar.

First rate.

Saloon whores.

He was truthful. He hadn't had time to savor that aspect of the Long Branch offerings. But in keeping with the tag she'd given him he boasted about those special whores he had favored. His prowess was phenomenal. So much so that these professional women screamed their pleasure.

Whatever he did was unique.

And he explained in great detail.

Disquieting to one Kitty Russell. She knew from previous experience that the idiot did nothing out of the ordinary and whores were extremely good actresses. They had to be to earn their coin while liquor sodden men were fools for the taking.

After twenty-five minutes Kitty was ready to vacate Dodge City for the quiet of the prairie. But then Loudmouth made a big announcement.

"Drink up boys, we got us some work to do."

As long as their 'work' was outside the saloon she didn't care what they did, only that they where gone. Out of ear shot. Out of sight. And hopefully, out of mind.

She tensed as Loudmouth drifted along the bar with his chest puffed out so far she thought he might float to the ceiling from all that built up hot air. He stopped in front of her and reached out to touch her.

Kitty backed away so swiftly she rammed into the rack of clean glasses on the backbar. Steins tinkled against each other as they fell to the floor. The heavy squat shot glasses didn't brake, just thunked on the floor around her feet.

The broken glasses were nothing.

The bar separating her from this man was everything.

Staring into her eyes for a change, he leered. "I get me some coin in my pocket I'm gonna pay you a visit, Red. Make you scream so loud all 'o Dodge will know old Kirby Splitz was doin' ya."

Kitty didn't think so.

If this one ever showed up again she'd make it a point to encourage him to leave very fast. The shot gun underneath the bar had a persuasive way of changing a person's mind. Cold steel. It worked most every time.

She watched them leave.

Calmed completely once the trio was gone from her sight.

If she wanted to scream for real all she had to do was get Matt Dillon into her bed.

No acting, that.

To say Kitty Russell loved the business she was in would be a lie. But the results of that business, as it lay before her on the faded green table top, was why she kept at it. She did it well day after day. Week after week. Year after year.

The coins were stacked neatly into piles by value; a great many gold dollars, more halfs, way too many quarter eagles, and a few silver dollars. Kitty mourned the lack of double eagles. No rich trail boss or rancher had graced her saloon last night spending freely on rounds of cheap whiskey or beer for everyone.

But money, no matter the form it took, was always welcome.

She checked the dainty round framed time piece that hung suspended from a gold platted pin above her left breast. Just time enough to make a deposit before the bank closed down for the noon hour and her business picked up in earnest at the Long Branch.

Sweeping the individual stacks of coins into separate bags, she said, "I'll run this to the bank."

Then she put the four bags into one larger one, a heavy blue denim with a leather drawstring.

She looked up, hearing the ghost of Sam Noonen saying, _I"ll do that for you."_

Jerry kept sweeping the floor.

Sam would have done anything for her. She missed him. The tall man had been her protector as well as her employee. More times than she could count, he'd been her advisor.

She missed him.

"I need the fresh air," she said, more to Sam than to Jerry.

That was the truth. The saloon had aired out since last night now that the doors were open. But in a few short hours it would be filled with a thick haze of smoke.

The stale smoke, if she was not so accustomed to the lifestyle that her money allowed, would be another reason to get her thinking about quitting the business and settling down to a normal life.

Whatever a normal life was.

There was always the niggling thought that Matt Dillon just might give up that badge of his. If that happened, all the pieces of the puzzle just might fall into place.

A dream.

But a very nice one.

Dodge City.

Horse shit on the street.

Urine flowing to the low spots.

The overwhelming stink of the stockyards.

Always a flavorful aroma on a stagnant September day.

Kitty checked her watch one more time.

Bodkin was meticulous about closing at the crack of noon. His belly demanded attention and he was more than willing to give it. Two minutes. Time enough if she moved fast. No board walkers were in her way. No doubt they were already having lunch with their families or sitting in DelMonico's waiting for the special of the day.

A saloon never closed at this time of day. Some men were always ready to drink their lunch.

PeachFuzz held the reins of four horses on the street side of the bank.

Kitty had a passing notion as soon as she saw him: why wasn't the young man using the hitching post to tether the horses?

The pleasant looking young man kept his head still while moving his eyes up the street and down, catching the closed door of the bank in between. His sun browned hands kneaded the leather of the reins and he gave weight to first one foot than the other. He was pacing while standing in one spot.

When he saw Kitty approaching his face turned sunburn red and he looked down to the damp dirt.

"Why, hello," she spoke gently.

When he looked up she saw confusion mixed with panic.

It was more than the stricken look a shy man gave a good looking woman. She felt so sorry for him that she went on into the bank without further conversation.

As soon as she stepped inside the bank she was pushed from behind and the door closed with a slam. The rough shove made her lose control of the money bag. She watched as it came to rest at the feet of a man with a gun pointed at her. A faded red bandana covered his nose and mouth.

The same man, dressed in dusty black clothing, picked up the bag and shook it up and down with his free hand. The jingle of coins filled the small lobby of the bank. Never once did he take his eyes off her nor let his gun stray from its target, the spot her watch was pinned to.

"Up."

Now that same gun moved up and down.

She put her hands up, noticing one other person with the same awkward stance. A woman. Bodkin and two of his tellers were busy gathering money from their tills or the open safe.

Another hand as course and dry as prairie grass gabbed her arm and pushed her next to the matronly Mrs. Gordon. Every inch of this woman's many rolls of fat were visibly trembling.

Mrs. Gorden, the proper woman who took to the opposite side of the street even if it meant getting her shoes dirty to avoid proximity to Kitty and the Long Branch.

Kitty was somewhat sympathetic. The woman had good reason. The poor thing was married to a man who paid visits to the Long Branch morning, afternoon, and evening. And that, Kitty understood clearly from years of experience, had to be her fault in Mrs. Gordon's mind.

A liquid breakfast, lunch, and dinner was one thing but unfortunately that was not the only shortcoming Mr. Gorden had. He liked variety. In women. He came around any time Kitty had a new girl working for her. Even approached her when the alcohol reduced his common sense.

Where, she scolded herself, were these strange thoughts coming from. She should be scared to death. But then another errant idea crept into her mind, poor Mrs. Gordon couldn't walk away from her now even if she wanted to.

"Hurry up with that money! Add this."

The man in black tossed Kitty's sack of coins to Bodkin.

Black hair, a few streaks of gray at the temples, beneath a black hat. Eyes to match. What appeared to be a full beard beneath his bandana.

Poor Joseph. Kitty felt sympathy for the thin, balding teller behind the cage. His smooth pale hands shook as he grasped stacks of bills. One bundle slipped through his hands and he floundered frantically to gain control.

There was an odor in the room.

It wasn't sweat.

The door burst open slamming into the inside wall of the bank. Windows rattled. Mrs. Gordon screamed. Kitty held her breathe.

All motion stopped as the full bellied rancher bulled his way inside. The man's good natured smile turned to one of desperation as he instinctively pulled his side arm.

Too late.

A masked robber had already fired into the man.

Mrs. Gordon's hands covered her face. Joseph fell to the floor. Bodkin ducked behind the big desk.

Kitty and the black haired bandit faced each other.

"Gotta get out of here."

Another strong hand grabbed Kitty and pulled her in front of himself.

"Got no choice," that same man told Black.

Kitty was the first one out the door.

A crowd of people were gathering. Some stood on the dirt of the street, others on the opposite boardwalk. Women in faded calico dresses. Men with the checkered napkins from DelMonico's tucked inside the collars of their shirts like a baby's bib. Some men wore guns. Some had only the tools of dinner.

There hadn't been a soul just minutes earlier.

Itchy fingers.

Tension. Confusion.

Where was Matt? She searched the faces. He wasn't among them.

The fresh faced boy's cheeks and forehead flowed with wide streams of dust colored sweat.

The air stood still waiting for something. Anything. To happen.

Not a sound. Not even the pawing of nervous horses or the shuffling of boots.

Kitty was thrust forward toward an ill kept roan, pushed into it, then lifted forcibly into the saddle.

As soon as the man joined her all hell broke loose.

Zings of 45's flew through the air. Some close. Most, not.

Black yelled over the din. "Stop your shooting or she gets it."

Again Kitty Russell faced the business end of the man's gun.

Those eyes.

Familiar.

Then she fell forward over the arm of the man seated behind her.

A searing pain overwhelming her.

Then she felt nothing at all.


	3. Chapter 3

-3-

Matt

Tiny particles drifted down to lightly touch his face and hands despite the closed doors and windows. Spent coal was the invader he could see and feel but it was the unseen and permeating stench of hot oil that made him wish for the clean but pungent redolence of horse. Buck in particular. But that old boy would have covered the miles much too slowly so now Matt was forced to deal with this iron monstrosity. It roared and churned, chugged and crept. And belched clouds of digested fuel on him and everyone else trapped inside this coach as they moved toward Houston.

Matt needed every second.

Because Kitty needed him.

Wherever she was.

A plan. He should have one.

He didn't.

Not yet.

Other than hopping on this train after Stuart Hayne's visit this morning a logical thought hadn't entered his head. His only focus was getting to Houston.

Confined, in a way, his mind worked continuously.

What to do when he got to Houston? The tedious but necessary sorting of allies and enemies. Trust. Lies. The discerning of one from the other.

The last time he'd been in Houston was over twenty years ago. It was a growing city then. Big.

It wouldn't be the same, now. Even Dodge City changed from one year to the next.

He had to stay awake. He couldn't allow the constant motion of the coach to lull him into a dreaming sleep because he feared the combination of resting body and overactive mind. Sleep used to be beneficial, a time to rest and rejuvenate. Now it was a time where he was haunted and forced to recall the events of fourteen months ago. Again and again.

_God, had it really been that long?_

When all this started?

And then got worse by the hour?

Words couldn't describe just how much he missed her. It wasn't just the softness of her body lying next to his. It was the way her eager and incising smile, meant only for him, chased away all his troubles. Long and flowing, soft red hair framed her face. Those strands that clung to her dampened forehead after intense lovemaking. The smell of lilacs, clean and full of hope. Her quick mind. An easily flared temper. That gutsy laugh when words or someone tickled her easy sense of humor. The warmth of her arms encircling him, drawing him closer.

Then came the reality of his own helplessness.

And shame.

He recalled the rawness in his throat as if it had only been two minutes ago. The blood frenzy of the citizens of Dodge City and their choice. Those same people didn't see the red haired woman being used as a shield by a man with a gun to her back. Saw only the fact of their hard work being stolen by a group of masked men.

It was too late when he'd seen her slump over the left arm of the masked man.

Too late when the firing stopped.

He could only watch as the robbers high tailed it out of Dodge, one of their own wounded as well.

Emasculated.

Robbed of his need to protect Kitty.

But flooded with a million sobering questions: would they care for her? Would she bleed to death? Would her blood pour down the worn brown saddle to nourish the Kansas dust? Would they treat her with respect?

Should he follow? Would they kill her if he did?

Should he stay put? Might she die?

On and on, each supposition was tramped into the dirt of Front Street.

Then further insult.

"Should we get a posse together?" Newly asked, his gun drawn, his breath coming fast.

"No. I'll go alone."

The passing looks between Festus and Newly.

"You think thet thar's a good idea, Matthew?"

Both men gave quick glances to his right arm and the empty sheath of the holster on his left hip.

_What was the right thing to do?_

"I don't know, boys," Matt spoke honestly. "Get my horse from Grimmick's."

He made the decision and he'd stick by it.

It was a dam lonely ride. Even before the rain came.

He hadn't had the foresight to take along his rain slicker, hadn't had the foresight to take along much of anything except his rifle and a box of shells and those things were a permanent attachment to his saddle.

Kitty.

She was his only thought.

How far he traveled into the rolling hills before he lost the clear trail he had no idea. He remembered pausing on the high side of a hillock as he pervaded the surrounding area. The hills rolled on and on lost in the cold gray drizzle.

Then he heard something familiar.

His adrenaline surged as he saw the riders approaching from his right. Eight men, the rain sluicing off their slickers, came up to join him.

"Dillon, right?"

The water dripped from the foreword brim of the man's hat to land on the horse's withers.

"Ya."

"Expect you could use some help. Mind if we tag along?"

Matt hesitated.

"Name's Graystock, I'm a U.S. Marshall. Been after this gang for a long time. Me and my men want to be in on this. Understand?"

There should have been a choice to be made somewhere in Graystock's words. Matt's choice to say yes or no.

Three hills later they caught up with the gang.

The soddy, built into the side of a steeper hill, had a wooden door or what was left of one. It hung sagging and splintered by rusting hinges. Horses, four of them, were tied to one lone stake, their heads shaking constantly to keep the water from going into the depths of their ears. Out in the open with the rain rushing down the sides of their bellies.

Matt had a distinct premonition that men who didn't give their horses proper care surely wouldn't attend to the needs of a human being. No smoke came from the vent. That soddy was damp and cold inside.

"Seems like all those yahoos are still here."

"One was shot," Matt volunteered.

"Now we're down to three."

Graystock dismounted and threw the reins of his horse to another man.

"Gonna make our job a bit easier."

"But you have to tread lightly, there's a hostage with them," Matt added.

"Think so, eh?"

"Thought you knew all about this situation."

"Sure do, Marshal Dillon, sure do. It's never my intention to shoot anybody deliberately, but they give me cause..."

"Wait!" Matt bellowed. "I don't like what's going on here."

"You," Graystock squinted at Matt's right arm, "let me do my job. Stay out of it, these bastards are mine."

The man turned his back and walked away.

It wasn't the blunt words or the obvious repugnance the man laid on Matt's nearly useless gun hand, it was the coldness of his steel gray eyes.

The agenda.

This man had one.

And Matt was positive he was not going to like what happened next.

When it was all over, John Black lay in a puddle of his own blood. Kirby Splitz was shot in the head while he held Kitty one last time as a human shield. And the other man shot in the gut.

Kitty was splattered with blood. Splitz's.

And handcuffed.


	4. Chapter 4

-4-

Kitty: The Awakening

Wet.

Burning.

Throbbing. Every breathe. A reminder.

Sour. Familiar. Horse. Man.

Earth. Damp. Chilling. Mildew.

A face. More than a boy but less than a man grown. Screams. Bloodied saddle. Whimpers.

Silence.

Kitty opened her eyes to see. It was dark but eventually four walls came into view as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. The scent of moldy earth, the odor clung to her nose. The bedroll she lay on was damp. Then she saw the shape of the man standing over her.

"Bout time you came around, Kathleen."

Flutters of recognition. The bank. The voice.

The man in black.

She didn't respond and he moved away. As her vision adjusted even more to the weak light, she watched him lather his face till suds encompassed all of his facial hair.

The glint of a straight razor caught in a gray iota of light.

She didn't want to watch.

But she loved to watch a man, Matt, shave off the brittleness of a day's growth. Leisurely laving his face, working the sharp razor from his throat to his chin, working toward a smooth face. Then he'd turn, see her sitting on the bed, knees drawn up beneath her chin with a promise in his.

_Matt, where are you?_

This other man dragged the blade against the base of his two-inch growth. Scraping a swath before dousing the blade into a pan of water. Porcelain.

"Never wanted anyone hurt. You gotta know that."

He resumed his methodical process.

"How do you know my name?"

She heard him snigger.

It was all she got for an answer.

"That young man," Kitty turned her head from side to side, searching, "he alright?"

Still no answer.

Kitty moved to get up but stopped when she realized she had only a thin, worn blanket covering her from the waist up. A bandage was wrapped tightly around her ribs. She pulled the moldy smelling blanket up to her chin.

She heard the razor fall into the pan of water with a pop and a clang. Then, just as quickly, this man's face was over hers once again.

"Been a while, more than twenty years."

She had a hard time taking in air.

And not because of the pain in her side.

"You were just a skinny sixteen year old then, half starved. Hear you did real good for yourself. Splitz tells me you're the owner of the Long Branch Saloon."

The opposite ends of her life. The then and the now. The desperate, Cole Yankton went on, she stayed. A pretty but used girl with no place to go in a South run by the North.

Johnny Black. Smooth talking. Handsome with dark eyes. Lean.

Dangerous.

Shady.

"Don't be so shy little girl. You ain't got nothing I ain't seen before."

She remembered why she left him.

Hate was too nice of a word to describe it.

Pompous.

Domineering.

A cruel hybrid of a southern gentleman.

A user. An actor.

"The boy," she said again only to keep the memories at bay.

"Dead. Bled to death. Blessing, since he was gut shot."

No hint of contrition.

"You just let him die?"

"He knew the risks."

"Just like I did?"


	5. Chapter 5

5

The Nightmare

They were laughing. At him.

Some of the faces were smudged with soot. Or was it dirt? Matt couldn't quite tell because of the murky darkness that enveloped them all, including himself.

_Secrets._

Brashly said. The clean face of a nice looking man on a wanted poster flashed like lightening through Matt's brain.

Tucker Ferril.

_Women like to keep 'em. You should'a beat it out of her._

Matt thrashed at the image, his hands and arms passing through the vision. A vaporous sneer was all he got in response.

Lutie Judson stuck a gray fleshed finger in Matt's face. _You kilt me. All I wanted was to take her away from you. You kilt me._

Lutie took his finger back and hopped up and down in a dance of insanity.

Or was it Matt's own?

_Coulda' showed her a real good time. Better'n what you give her." _ Lutie turned his back on Matt and hopped toward the deep shadows. _Ma still cries fer me. Ya, big man. Got what's comin' ta ya now. Couldn't kill yer way through this 'un._

_You kilt me_ echoed on and on into the darkness until it was no more than a whimper.

Kitty might have died from that injury if the crazy kid had gotten hold of her. Matt thought back to that time, he simply couldn't, wouldn't, allow that to happen. Drastic measures.

_Pshaw. He'd a left her. What good's a woman thats got no response._

Jake Baylor. The back shooter. The one who nearly killed Kitty.

_Took off after me even though he knew it didn't look good fer his woman. What kind a man'd do that?_

Baylor was right.

_More after revenge then sittin' with her. He don't love her._

_Gentlemen, gentlemen, this poor man did what he had to do. I should know, I had to make a decision too._

Still young and clean cut, the dude stuck up for Matt. Jim Rachnil.

_Course I have to say this man didn't give Kitty everything she wanted, else she wouldn't have come with me that night. Every woman wants attention. Just natural. But even Matt Dillon is entitled to a mistake._

_I will not do that._

Another voice. Older.

Matt focused in on the man's voice. Face hidden in the purple haze, that tone was all he had to go on.

_Kitty needs to be protected. I know. She's easily duped. Oh, she gives the impression she knows what she wants to do. She's good at putting up a front."_

Matt had to agree with that statement.

_She's got love to give. You know that, Dillon._

Kitty's words hung suspended in the air, _He was the first man I ever knew, the first __grown man. I don't know whether you can understand this or not, but to a woman, that'd make him special._

Cole Yankton.

Jealous. A powerful desire to kill the man who'd taken Kitty Russell's innocence. How could Kitty still feel for this man who'd left her?

_Women. Got to beat it out of 'em._

_No. Got to love 'em._

Another voice.

_It's time, she'd be better off with any other man. Even me. Can't protect her from all the world's evils. But this one doesn't have sense enough to see what he needs to do._

Those words lingered in the air for a good bit of time, rolling through Matt's conscience.

_Now me, I would have taken that woman and found a place where no one would know me, just so's she wouldn't have to see me gunned down in the street._

Will Stambridge.

_She's not better off with him._

_No, she is not._

Another distinct voice. Almost a scream.

_And now she's gone somewhere and he don't know what's happenin' to her. Make my hanging all worth it to see him like this._

_Don't..._

_Stay out of this Stambridge. Got him good. Late, but got him. He don't know what'shappening to her. She been used, beat up, tossed in a shallow grave, or no grave at all. And it's all his fault. Had her a time or two myself, when she was still fresh. No one'd want her after some 'o my men used her. Sweet. Those screams, they were for you, Dillon. I enjoyed _e_very one._

_Matt, listen to me._

A new voice. Low as a man's voice could go. Gentle. But firm.

_Miss Kitty doesn't blame you for anything._

Sam Noonen.

"Marshal,"

Matt felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Marshal,"

Matt pushed that hand away and lunged after the body the limb was attached to.

"Marshal,"

A frightening scream erupted from the abdominous conductor as Matt's hands closed around his throat.

Matt woke in a sweat, his forehead beading a path down his nose to drop on the conductor's white shirt.

"Sorry," he said with weak breathiness, finally seeing where he was.

"That was some nightmare, Marshal." A young boy volunteered while his mother tried to shush him.

They were looking at him, some with fear, others with pity.

The train. The coach.

Reality.


	6. Chapter 6

-6-

Matt-The Trial

Doc latched on to the worn tweed coat sleeve to slow Matt Dillon down.

But Matt ignored the old man's silent gesture and simply walked out of the good Doctor's grip as he took another step, two tiers this time, up the hard stone stairs.

Two pillars loomed on either side supporting an intricately carved porch above him. Justice, her alabaster hands holding a balance, looked cold and severe even with the illusion of softly flowing robes surrounding her seated figure.

Matt prayed Justice would look fairly upon one Kitty Russell.

_Kitty._

Passing underneath the portico he turned and watched Doc climb the last few steps. Doc's legs could hardly make it.

"Come on, Doc," Matt held out a hand so Doc could grasp it.

"Can't change," Doc's narrow chest heaved, "what's gona happen."

_Helpless._

_At the mercy of others._

Doc was right.

_But it still hurt to have him say it out loud._

"I thought I could see her."

Doc's washed out blue eyes had seen a lot of life, all the misery, all the suffering, and the happiness as well. Now they held the sorrow his voice hadn't.

"We've been through that, Matt." He let go of Matt's hand to brush the lips hidden beneath his graying mustache. "She doesn't want to see you. She made that very clear."

_Ya. _ Matt felt the sting of rejection. Through her lawyer. Through the chief of police. Not face to face.

"And let me tell you this, Sonny..."

An imaginary finger materialized in front of his face.

"You better simmer down. You aren't gonna help her if you barge in that courtroom with a chip on your shoulder."

Once again Galen Adams put his age spotted hand on Matt's arm. Different this time, the old man didn't need the support.

He did.

Chip on his shoulder?

_Absolutely._

"Doc, what if she..?"

"Don't you dare think the worst, young man."

_Has to go away for a while._

Matt said the words to himself in spite of Doc's thick illusory forefinger waging in his face.

_Prison._

"She's got a good lawyer."

Not a comforting thought since he'd personally escorted more than one man to their hanging that he felt was innocent.

"And she's got lots more years of being a good citizen. A good person. And," Doc's voice rose above a controlled whimper, "you gotta have faith, Matt."

Matt always respected Doc's opinion. Knew even now the man's words were meant to be reassuring.

But the words didn't stop his churning gut.

Cause he was a realist.

Ants.

Each following in the steps of the one before them.

A parade.

Of affluent men in stylish suits with soft, clean hands.

_A jury of your peers. _

Since when were men the peers of women?

The part of the six foot high wainscoting that was actually a door opened and there she was, being led by a uniformed guard.

Matt's breath caught in his chest.

No hand cuffs. No shackles of any kind.

Red hair, tied loosely at the nape of her neck, hung down over a mousey gray shirtwaist and skirt.

No paint.

Blue eyes, tired. Subdued.

Until she looked his way.

A flash of warmth. For a brief instant. That same light in her eyes as when he'd come late in the evening to spend the night in her arms.

But that welcoming softness vanished very quickly into resignation. Into the reality of the where and the why of the now.

_I've told you anything and everything, if there's something I don't want to talk about..._

How long ago had she said those words to him? Thirteen?

As she came closer to the chair next to her lawyer, Matt could see the protruding shoulder bones, the gauntness of her sunken cheeks.

A greenish bruise blemished the milky perfection of the point of her chin.

Only a wooden railing separated him from her.

"All rise," said with as much enthusiasm as a spent horse, the thin fleshed bailiff repeated the words as if he'd performed them a million times before in front of his millionth disinterested audience.

Matt could not get past the obvious green bruise on her chin.

He stood, along with everyone else, but anger was welling up inside him. Anger complete with an overwhelming desire to sweep Kitty into his arms, throw her over his shoulder, and whisk her out of this courtroom. To run. Someplace. Anyplace.

Shafts of natural light streamed through the tall narrow windows and showed the judge's robe to be threadbare as the white haired man stepped to his high perch behind the massive dark stained desk. He looked old even though no visible lines marked his face.

This man was not used to smiling.

"Be seated."

Judge Samuel Tarly donned a pair of half spectacles only to peer over the top of them, first at Kitty, then her lawyer, Owen Irish. To finally rest on the prosecuting attorney, Michael Merryweather.

The judge returned his gaze toward Kitty.

Matt saw the slight flaring of the man's left nostril. The raising of his head so he could look down his nose at her.

Innocent until proven guilty?

Or guilty until proven innocent?

In Samuel Tarly's mind, the case was already decided.

_Justice._

Matt stifled his urge to shout out loud.

_Fair and unbiased._

Doc's hand was on his arm. Again. A stay. A reminder.

Of who Matt Dillon was and why he was here.

"Mr. Merryweather, the court will hear your opening statement."

Stout. Severe. Merryweather's mouth barely moved as he talked. He addressed the jury, all of whom looked much like himself.

"A simple case. Miss Kathleen Russell, most recently of Dodge City, Kansas, sits before you as plain as the day her mother birthed her."

He paused to let the jury of twelve men mentally pry beneath the defendant's unassuming exterior.

"That is not," Merryweather stood, then walked in front of his simple desk, "the case in actuality. Miss Russell hides a past, a heinous one. She aided in the murder of one Isaiah Randolph, abetted in the heist that resulted in the man's death, and, for more than twenty years, has eluded capture."

Merryweather cleared his throat with great energy as he approached the jury box.

"She didn't pull the trigger that snuffed out this man's life like a candle. But she did play a part, a role, if you will, in that she provided the information for the man who did. Mr. Randolph," he looked into the faces, the eyes of each of the men of the jury, "a simple man with a wife and six children, acted only to protect the assets of the Lincoln State Bank. A job he took most seriously."

Merryweather allowed the division between defense and prosecution to settle in.

Turning with sudden force toward Kitty and her lawyer, Merryweather used both of his well fleshed hands to offer the vision of Kitty Russell.

"The Prosecution will prove this. The Defense will attempt to use Miss Russell's youth as an excuse for her behavior. But I will tell you, this woman is not as she appears. And youth has no place in knowing right from wrong. But did she, considering her role in this case, also play a part in the robbery in Dodge City where another innocent person died?"

He nodded to the jurors and judge before taking his seat.

"We will prove this beyond a shadow of doubt that she is guilty."

Not a sound broke the stillness within the walls of this St. Louis courtroom, yet Merryweather's voice still echoed loud and clear from one solid wall to the other like a charging accusation of inscrutable guilt.

"The court will hear from the Defense."

Owen Irish stood up. He was a small man. Very slender. His breast bone protruded in a sharp V even beneath the double breasted suit he wore. Not imposing. He was the sort of average person no one ever give notice to. Young. Fair. Clean shaven.

Irish looked down at Kitty.

"My client, Miss Kathleen Russell, was sixteen years old at the time this crime took place. Prior to that incident..."

Audible gasps ensued from the people on the right hand side of the courtroom.

"Miss Russell had been a survivor of our most unfortunate war between the states. Her home in New Orleans given over to carpet baggers. Her life in a turmoil, her personal finances non existent. And," he side glanced Merryweather, "yes, she provided services to men in the fashion of the world's oldest profession. Forced by the need to eat. To survive. The Prosecution will bring this to the fore. But no that it has no viable baring on this specific case."

Irish paused from his speech as he stepped from behind the narrow table that passed for a desk, and into the center space.

Facing the jury, he continued.

"Enter one John Black. An older man. One more adept at deceit and crime. And with the simple promise of a better life my client was ensnared. A victim, herself, under a spell."

He breathed in, his small narrow chest expanding.

"But," his voice boomed loud, reverberating from one wall of the courtroom to the other, "only once. Black's deception was plain, her realization of it a credit to her intelligence and also of her acceptance of the difference between right and wrong. She could," he zoomed in on the jury with eyes that grew as large as his voice, "have stayed with John Black, continued in a life of crime against hardworking people. But instead, she chose to leave the man. And without one single cent of profit. I ask you to consider this as we proceed. Her life since that one departure from the Law has been one of law abiding citizen. A business woman. In firm standing in her community. Miss Russell seeks not to deny her part in the crime of which she has been accused, but to implore mercy and understanding in her participation in it. As for Mr. Merryweather's accusation of participation in the Dodge City robbery, we will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that that is a ludicrous attempt to add further shame to Miss Russell. Thank you."

Small explosions of conversation erupted. Whispers not stifled. Huffs.

"Thank you, Mr Irish." Judge Tarly said as he fingered through a sheaf of papers on his desk never once looking up.

The little man impressed Matt. Especially the voice behind his size.

But was it enough?


	7. Chapter 7

-6A-

Flashback

Matt's fists balled into leaded weights. A battering ram, the heels of his boots struck the hard surface of the sidewalk like sledge hammers. Face rigid, he wanted to push the people walking with or against him out of his way.

This short walk between his rooming house and the St. Louis State Courthouse was more than enough to get his anger boiling. These city slickers had no right to be laughing, talking in light tones.

Because he wasn't.

He needed to think about something else. Not just for his own sanity but also for the welfare of one Kitty Russell.

Pleasant thoughts. To take him away from the hard paved streets and the high spirits of the crowds. The drudgery of the trial.

Like the last time he and Kitty walked these same streets. Three years ago. And how he'd been rude enough to bull his way through the crowds back then.

But for a very different reason.

Spring. Just after Easter. Kitty needed new clothes. New hats. New underwear. New shoes. New everything all in the latest style. The whole gamut.

He would accompany her. Be the package bearer. Companion. Critic.

It came off as planned. That in itself was a miracle. He couldn't stifle the wince at the time before when plans did not work out. The time when Will Stambridge came between them.

Always methodical, Kitty started with a new corset.

Madam Sylvester was severe. With a long pointed nose and dark eyes, she reminded Matt of the witch in one of the stories his mother used to tell him as a child. Matt had no doubt that this woman's corset was cinched ten times more than comfort allowed.

"You will," Madam Sylvester looked down the length of her pipestem smeller first at Matt then at Kitty, "be needing some help, Miss Russell."

Kitty responded quickly. "Oh, no, Constance. Matt will help me," her eyes bright with azure humor.

A Kansas twister. The sound that emanated from the woman's proboscis.

"Come on, Matt."

Kitty led him through a side door to another room lined with mirrors floor to ceiling.

"Close the door, Matt."

He hadn't expected to be doing this.

_Corsets._

Not that he minded.

_Corsets._

Kitty took off her white silk gloves and dropped them leisurely across the back of the lone chair. Adept at working the diminutive pearl buttons on her waist coat, she quickly discarded that item over the gloves. A few more buttons and the skirt and petticoat lay in a pile around her feet. She stepped out of them.

"Matt, would you put these on the chair?"

Matt was busy watching the corset she already wore. It had a way of encouraging Kitty's well endowed breasts to be even more so as they attempted to escape the confines of the camisole underneath it.

"Matt,"

"Oh...ya..." He picked up the skirt and pettycoat and draped them both atop the coat.

"I need help getting out of this corset."

Why a woman would choose to imprison her curves within this uncomfortable looking contraption Matt Dillon would never understand. Those were his thoughts as he pulled one of the string ends and began the slow process of extricating Kitty's midsection.

Kitty breathed a big sigh of relief as she took the corset from Matt's hands and tossed it on the chair.

"Now," she grabbed the new corset, pulled it apart, an end in either hand to inspect the flesh colored article. "Lots of staves. They sure weren't lying about that. This Hygeian brand is expensive, a dollar and a quarter. But it's supposed to be the best."

Matt understood that she was not talking to him. But to herself. And that he was little more than an eavesdropper at this particular point.

Her breasts hung freely beneath the crisp whiteness of the lacy camisole. Gently swaying. Two protrusions breaking the smoothness.

He wanted to touch.

In the worst way.

"Cowboy, I need you..."

He coughed.

"Here,"

He wanted something else under his hands but all he got was the new corset.

A knock on the door, "Miss Russell, are you doing alright?"

"Yes, Constance. Matt is a great help."

They both did their best to stifle the giggles that so desperately wanted to erupt after hearing Madam Sylvester snort. Again.

Two corsets wrapped in brown paper with brand new string later, Kitty led Matt down the street to Francios' Milinary.

Hats. A big deal to her. A necessity to him. He assumed that necessity led to the ease in which he chose a new hat. If it fit the circumference of his head and was a tan color, he bought it. But only if he needed one. Unlike Kitty who, he felt strongly, could never have enough.

Green hats with narrow brims. Purple hats with wide brims. Red hats with no brims. Feathers dyed to match. Feathers off the fowl with no touch up. Peacock feathers with many colors and eyes. Hats with sheer veils. Hats with no veils. Hats with colored veils. Small, medium, big. Huge.

Picking out a corset was much easier. Kitty would be here for hours.

But he sat patiently while Louis Francios hovered on Kitty's every wish.

Five hats packed in five not-so-dainty boxes later, they exited the small shop.

"Bamburg's has this new kind of dress fastener," she said as she looked straight ahead, "I'd like to see what it's all about."

Matt wanted to object.

But thought better of it.

_She'd be taking off her clothes._

Again.

"But Miss Russell, this simply is not done."

The head seamstress at Bamburg's was a stout woman. And unmarried, judging by the look of her barren left ring finger.

"Mr. Dillon always helps me."

Kitty told a lie.

A beautifully convincing one.

She didn't flinch. She never dropped her eyes from the seamstress' own.

_No wonder she won at poker._

"If you do not agree to my way of doing things I'll take my business elsewhere. And Mr. Bamburg will hear of it."

Kitty used her 'don't mess with me little girl, I'm tougher than you' voice.

He'd watched mean cowboys back off when she used that tone. Backed off himself more than once. Mostly from fear of what her temper would bring.

The sizable lady deliberated silently, obviously weighing all the options.

"As you wish, Miss Russell."

The emphasis on the word 'miss' was not lost on Kitty or himself.

"I'd like to try one of those clasp locker dresses."

A simple nod.

"Size 2."

A single beat then Kitty spoke again, "All my dresses should be a size 2."

The rotund woman's left nostril flared just a bit.

"And your colors...?"

"Pastels, darks, and with an orange or two. I love orange."

"But, Miss Russell, the orange color does not flatter the redness of your hair."

"I know. But I like orange."

"As you wish."

"You were pretty hard on her, Kitty," Matt said as soon as the fitting room door latched closed.

"I don't think so. Did you see the way she eyed our left hands?"

"You have no shame, Kitty Russell."

She marched up to him until the fronts of their bodies touched.

"Are you up for this, Cowboy?"

She was a terrible woman.

Then she smiled.

She was worse than terrible.

And he loved it.

The clasp locker required the hands of another to make it work. Hands used to working with delicate items. Not the hands of a man accustomed to holding a gun or the reins of a bridle, or a heavy leather saddle. There would be no sale on this new fangled item.

Evening gowns. Some low cut, visibly exposing the mounds of her breasts above the cloth. Some bodices with sheer material but giving no illusion as to what lay beneath. Some with a high neck in material that concealed everything to make her look like a prudish school marm.

Five dresses, a deep burgundy, a pale orange, two blues, one light one dark, and one deep brown. Some chosen to match the hats.

"They will be ready for pickup tomorrow evening."

Kitty placed her left hand on the plump woman's arm, "Thank you. I'll recommend you very highly to your boss."

"Are you ready to go back to the hotel, Kitty?"

She stopped amidst the flow of foot traffic on the brick sidewalk, a puzzled expression looming.

"Don't you need something, Matt?"

Yes. He needed something. But it definitely could not be purchased in any of the shops that lined the street.

Then she eyed him from head to toe and back up again.

"We're going to Montgomery Wards. It's just a few blocks from here."

"Kitty..."

It came out as a whine.

An impatient one.

"You could use a new union suit."

She was vile.

Jeffrey patiently asked questions or gave answers to the oddly matched couple.

"Silk union suit? Why yes, we have them in stock. Would you like to try one on?"

"Yes we would," Kitty answered quickly. "And a cotton blend, also."

As soon as Jeffrey turned his back to them Kitty raised a perfectly shaped red eyebrow.

_More mischief._

Jeffrey handed two neatly folded parcels of cloth to Matt before leading them to a fitting room.

Small, the room had one bench running the width of it, a full length mirror, and a wooden door with a key inserted into the lock.

"If we need to get a different size we'll let you know." Kitty closed the door and turned the key.

"Let's get you out of these clothes."

It was going to be difficult working around his manly uprising.

"Oh, Matt."

She brushed against that same protrusion as she placed her hands beneath his coat to push it off his shoulders.

How many buttons kept the front of his linen shirt closed across his chest? It seemed like a million even as Kitty deftly slid button from button hole.

She had the audacity to pull his shirt from his trousers but not before using her hands to feel his enthusiasm along the way.

"Kitty..."

She slipped her hands beneath the shirt and sloughed it off. "Yes, Matt."

As her hands unclasp his belt buckle followed by the five straining closures that imprisoned his manliness, he groaned, "We can't. Not here."

She pushed him down on the bench, pulled off his boots and threw them in the corner. His pants came next. "Probably not. Let's get that old union suit off you."

Matt moaned.

Completely naked. Ready as he would ever be. And she, fully clothed. In a small room. In a Montgomery Wards. In St. Louis, Missouri.

"Just feel this," Kitty rubbed the silk material of the brand new suit against his chest.

Cool.

It slid across his chest. Slick. Inviting.

"Imagine," she rubbed the material against her own cheek, "you'd slide right out of these just thinking about it."

"Not practical on on the prairie."

"But they could sure be useful someplace else. We'll take it."

"But how do you know it'll fit?"

She held the shoulders up to his own to gauge the size. "It'll work." Then she glanced downward to where the material was hung up. "Even got room down there, Cowboy. I'm sure the other will fit, too. Let's go back to the hotel."


	8. Chapter 8

Nails

8

Courtroom Scene

"I call Dr. Galen Adams to the stand."

Doc used Matt's shoulder and the railing in front of him to hoist his body from the hard, wooden bench. A few moments passed until the elderly gent made his way across the vacant space between the judge's bench, the witness stand, the jury box, and the low but solid wooden wall that kept the interested people from the lawyers, the accused, the judge, and the jury.

"Raise your right hand," the bailiff droned while Doc's right foot was poised to step into the witness box.

"Just a minute there, sonny."

The bailiff cleared his throat.

"Now I'm ready for that Bible."

Doc lifted his right hand. It shook ever so slightly while he placed his left hand on the leather covered Bible. The faded black cover bore the oil stained outline of all the previous hands that had sworn to speak truthfully.

"Do you swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth?"

"I always tell the truth."

"Please, Doctor," the judge loomed over the witness box, "a simple yes will do."

Doc managed a quick glance in Kitty's direction.

"Yes. And I always tell the truth."

The bailiff pulled the Bible from beneath Doc's hand with a grudging huff then proceeded to drag his heels back to his station.

"Doctor," Judge Tarly said softly so only Doc could hear, "you had better compose yourself."

Doc looked around the room then at Tarly with a nod to the affirmative.

Owen Irish walked toward Doc, the punch line of a silent joke creasing the corners of his mouth.

"You'll have to forgive our bailiff, Frederick. He's only putting in his time till he can get home and beat his wife."

"Objection," Merryweather clamored.

"Mr. Irish," Judge Tarly stood up and placed his hands on the desk in front of him, "that was uncalled for. I hold you in contempt, $100 fine."

"I'm sorry, Your Honor."

Irish rested his right arm on the railing of the witness box. "Now, Doctor, you are a very good friend of the defendant, Miss Russell, are you not?"

"Yes, I consider myself her friend."

"As I understand from a good number of the other witnesses, your office overlooks the alley side of the Long Branch, Miss Russell's business. Is that correct?"

"Yes," Doc answered.

"Do you have occasion to go into this saloon?

"Yes, sir."

"Would you say, in your opinion, that Miss Russell runs a respectable establishment?"

"Of course."

"As both a patron and a friend you have had the privilege of observing Miss Russell's business dealings. Once again, in your own opinion, has she ever been dishonest with patron or employee?"

"Definitely not."

"Then you would say that her character is above reproach?"

"Yes, sir."

"In your opinion, is there even the slightest chance that Miss Russell was involved in the robbery in Dodge City?"

"No. And..."

"Doctor, answer the question, nothing more." Tarly meant the words for Doc but he was looking at Irish.

"Thank you, Doctor. I have no more questions but I reserve the right to recall if I so choose."

"Granted. Mr. Merryweather, I assume you have questions for Doctor Adams."

Cocksure, Merryweather's grin preceded him.

"You are much more than a friend."

The people, those in the jury box and the observers, leaned forward with their best ear waiting for Doc's answer.

"How many times have you proposed marriage to the defendant? Four, five, six times?"

Doc brushed the stiff bristles of his mustache.

"Where'd you get that from?" Doc inched to the front edge of his wooden chair before looking toward Kitty.

"Just answer the question, Doctor."

"Whoever told you this obviously doesn't understand..."

"Understand what? That a bachelor doctor might be enamored by a woman such as this?"

"That it's taken out of context. Kitty and I like to have a little fun. Didn't mean it literally."

"Especially when the marshal of Dodge City is her paramour."

Doc was standing.

"Sit down, Doctor," Judge Tarly glared over the half spectacles that threatened to fall off his nose.

"I am merely trying to set the stage," Merryweather swaggered, "for the good Doctor's glowing appraisal of her character."

Doc seemed to deflate as he sat back down.

"Is it true, Doctor, that Miss Russell came to Dodge City nineteen years ago?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what was her line of work, how did she support herself?"

"She got a job working in the Long Branch."

Merryweather put a pudgy right hand to his chin, a puzzled expression on his even more pudgy face.

"Was she a cleaning lady?"

"Of course not."

"Then tell me, Doctor, what did this woman do?"

"She served drinks. Made the clientele comfortable."

More direct, Merryweather threw the words at Doc, "Comfortable? And what exactly does that word mean?"

Once again the people in the courtroom physically inched toward Doc. Waiting.

Doc hesitated.

"I'm waiting, Doctor. Or would you rather reply with a simple yes to this answer: she prostituted herself."

Doc looked Merryweather in the eye, a cold expression masking the rigid features of his face. "You just gotta dump this on her, don't cha." Then with a high tenor that became even higher, he screamed, "yes. That's what you want to hear. That's what you all want to hear."

With a lowered voice, Merryweather cocked his head toward the jury and put his right finger to the side of his nose. "The real truth."

The men of the jury snorted quietly.

"So this woman of excellent integrity gave pleasure to those who offered money. Then she became the owner at one point, is that correct?"

Doc chortled. "You know all the answers. Why're you asking me?""

"And you, as a doctor, I could only assume, would check on this woman and later her working girl employees, as to their cleanliness from disease. Am I right?"

"Yup. That's how it's done in well run establishments. She could have let those paying customers get more then what they paid for, but she was better'n that."

"And how did the Law in Dodge City view this illicit trade?"

"It went on all over. All the other saloons in town offered the same thing. But with more risk."

"How many men, in your opinion, did this woman service before she became Matt Dillon's exclusive whore..."

"Just a minute, Sonny, you can't.." Doc was on his feet with a fist aimed at Merryweather's ample double chin.

Matt was pushing his way toward the aisle and making ready to physically jump the barrier.

Irish screamed above the noise, "Your Honor. Please tell Mr. Merryweather to be civil. He is intentionally bating the witness."

"Doctor," the judge reached over and put a hand on the shiny black suit of Doc's shoulder. "Dillon, go back to your seat. Mr. Merryweather, you will refrain from provoking Doctor Adams and Marshal Dillon."

Merryweather graced Matt with a snigger. "Yes, Your Honor. The Prosecution rests."

"The Court will take a thirty minute recess."

Tarly's gavel sounded like the explosive shot of a 45.

It smarted.

Way down in her heart.

Doc only meant to be her friend no matter what Merryweather asked or implied.

Yes, she mused as she was led away, she had been a prostitute.

Doc knew it.

And yet he chose to argue for her.

Matt. She'd heard his sporadic and heavy breathing as Merryweather needled Doc. Known when Matt's boot heels scraped against the gritty floor that he'd had enough. Knew also that Matt wanted nothing more than to defend her honor with the best thing he had, the bulk of his body.

Matt didn't deserve this.

Any of this.

That's when she gave thought to her decision to keep him away these past six weeks. Was it the correct thing to do? Was she protecting Matt or was it because she was a coward who chose to avoid seeing pain in the eyes of the man she loved more than life itself.

The truth hidden behind his words of encouragement that would so easily come from him.

That rang false. Because of the seriousness of the situation she was in.

All because of what she'd done.

And worse, what might come of it.

Regrets.

She had only one.

That her life began before Matt Dillon came into it.

"I'm so sorry, Matt."

Tears glistened in Doc's already watery blue eyes.

"I'm so sorry."

"Had no choice, Doc."

Here he was giving words of calm to his old friend. A complete turnaround from the day before.

Matt glared to his right. Samuel Graystock was looking at him with steel gray eyes hard as iron. Something drove that man and Matt was absolutely certain it was not for Kitty's good.

"I've entered into evidence three letters. The writers could not make the trip for financial and personal reasons," Irish handed three envelopes to Judge Tarly.

"This is most unusual, Mr. Irish."

"I know, but we ask the Court's indulgence."

Tarly opened each envelope, pulled out a doubled over piece of paper, unfolded each, then read them, one to the next, to himself. "You may read them to the jury. And I understand that you also," he nodded in Merryweather's direction, "have a letter or two. Correct?"

Merryweather bounded to a standing position. "Yes, Your Honor."

"Then this will work out. You may read your letters, Mr. Irish."

"Thank you, Your Honor." Irish took the three pieces of heavy paper, sorted through them, and placed them in the order he desired.

"The first letter is from Parson Anders. He is the pastor at the Dodge City Methodist Church.

To whom it may concern,

Miss Russell is an infrequent worshipper. But I

must add that her decision to do this is because of

how the other parishioners react to her presence.

This fine lady, albeit with an iniquitous profession, is

a conscientious contributor to the maintenance of

my flock. The other churches in Dodge City will not

accept the money she gives them with the excuse

that it is ill-gotten. A lot of good comes of her

donations such as children of the poor receiving

clothing and school supplies while their parents

are given food stores.

Sinfully gotten but wisely used for the good of her

fellow man. And I believe she gives this in the

spirit of a good Christian.

Sincerely,

Alexander Anders, Parson"

Merryweather didn't wait a beat before asking, "Your Honor, may I pose a question concerning the good Parson's letter?"

"Of course, but you realize you will be getting no response."

"Yes, sir." Merryweather inclined his bald pate toward Irish. "It appears that Miss Russell is following in her Catholic roots. Perhaps she feels she can buy her way out of Hell."

"Objection, Council is stirring up a matter that should not be included in this case," Irish whined.

"Sustained. The jury will ignore this remark. Mr. Irish, the Court will hear the contents of the second letter."

"The next letter is from one Mr. Louie Pheeters and reads as follows:

My name is Louie Pheeters and I am the town sot. I

was a drunk before I came to Dodge so my friend Miss

Kitty should not be blamed for this. I know how you

judges and lawyers are.

Miss Kitty gives me work and food. It's not her fault

I choose to spend my wages on a bottle of cheap

hooch.

She doesn't treat me like the dirt people walk over.

She looks me in the eye—she don't laugh at me when

I'm falling down drunk.

She's my friend. I care about her and she cares

about me.

She can't have done those bad things you say she

did. She's too nice.

Sincerely,

Louie Pheeters"

A scrape of chair legs on the drab earth colored floor caught the judge's attention.

"Mr. Merryweather, you have some comments?"

"I sure do." The paunchy man stood. "It is a most curious course of events that a known drunkard writes a letter praising the character of the owner of a barrelhouse."

He gave great pause while scanning each face in the jury box.

"Perhaps he knows his reward for such comments."

"Your Honor. I...

"Yes, Mr. Irish. I am warning you, Mr. Merryweather, please direct your comments to the trial at hand."

A dancing light in his eye, Merryweather glanced over the defendant as he sat down.

"The last letter is from a Bess and Will Roniger. I've been told that they are farmers as opposed to cattle ranchers. That in itself makes them unique. They also have fourteen children, four of them not their own. It reads as follows:

Miss Kitty has been a dear friend for over ten years.

Will and I are dumbfounded that this precious soul

has been charged with such a heinous crime. This

sweet lady has been nothing but upright in the

community of Dodge City. Yes, she does own a saloon,

but that is between God and her. I cannot judge her

for that.

The few farmers in the area have had some bad years

what with the tornadoes and draught and Miss Kitty

has seen fit to help us through these hard times.

Miss Kitty has a heart of gold. She helped old Doc

Adams and me take care of triplets when the mother died. Gentleness and

love, that's what she gave those

sweet little boys. We've also heard stories of where

this tender soul stood up to protect others less brave.

She's even saved the marshal's life a couple of times with her poker playing.

Miss Kitty trusted Will and me to look after and tame,

if you will, a wild child who couldn't talk and was

so afraid of humans that she'd shake. Kitty named

the child Willa Catherine and supplies more than

enough food and cloths. For the girl. She even comes out to see

her as often as she can.

These are not the actions of a bad person.

And to show you how much people in and around

Dodge City care for her, I have to tell you about

a dark time in her life. One where all of Dodge didn't

know if she would live or die. Jude Bonner, curse

his black soul to everlasting Hell fire, took her,

abused her, then shot her in the back and left her

for dead.

All of Dodge City waited by Doc's office. We all prayed,

saint and sinner alike. It was a miracle that she lived.

And more of a miracle that she wasn't crazy from

what had been done to her.

Wil and I are simple people but I like to think that

we know good people from bad. Miss Kitty is not bad.

What one of us can say truthfully that we never

made a mistake in our youth? I can't. Wil can't.

Sincerely,

Wil and Bess Ronniger."

Before the last syllable was uttered, Merryweather blurted out, "My, my. Another couple who must owe Kathleen Russell a tidy sum of money."

"Objection."

"Duly noted."

"I am sorry, Your Honor," Merryweather attempted to look contrite, "I will restrain my comments."

"It's about time," Irish spoke out loud.

"I find you in contempt, Mr. Irish. Five hundred dollars."

"Your Honor..."

"Do you have some more comments?"

"Yes, Your Honor." Merryweather faced the jury. "It certainly appears that Miss Russell is loved but I wonder why this woman," he nodded in Kitty's direction, "if she is the gracious person these Roniger's say she is, didn't attend to this Willa Catherine herself. Oh," he paused, "perhaps because she lives above a saloon."

The gavel cracked loud and clear and more than a few of the men in the jury box jumped.

"Sorry. Then I also question why and how this woman of such high character fell into the hands of Jude Bonner and his DogSoldiers?"

"She did it to save Sam Noonen's life, you blasted fool," Doc was shaking his fist and shouting at the top of his lungs.

"Sit down and restrain yourself, Doctor."

"Why," Doc pointed a finger at Merryweather, "he's not."

"Bailiff, see the good doctor out of the courtroom." Judge Tarly directed his full attention to the old man, "restrain him if necessary."

"Your Honor, this man is only coming to the defense of Miss Russell."

"On second thought, this court is adjourned until eight a.m. tomorrow morning."

The gavel's sharp bang didn't surprise anyone this time.


	9. Chapter 9

9

Judge Tarly entered the courtroom with a big sweep of his black robes but instead of stepping up to his box he came to the fore of it.

"A repeat of yesterday will not be tolerated. Mr. Merryweather and Mr. Irish, you will both need to control yourselves. And Doctor Adams and Mr. Dillon, if you choose to physically threaten anyone I will have you permanently removed from this courtroom. And that would not bode well for the defendant." He waited a good thirty seconds to glare at all four of the recipients of his words before taking his place.

Only after Tarly was perched in his high seat of authority, did the bailiff bring Kitty into the courtroom.

"Mr. Merryweather, you have a letter also?"

"Yes, Your Honor." Merryweather toddled toward the judge with a sheaf of papers in his right hand.

After a brief perusal, Tarly gave the papers back to Merryweather.

"This letter is from Wilbur Jonas."

Doc grabbed a handful of the lower part of his suit coat as he twisted his lips into a sneer.

Matt didn't need to hear the words to know what the man was thinking.

_Wilbur Jonas. He took her money and smiled. Now he stabbed her in the back._

"Miss Russell always pays her bills. On that she

is very good. But how she chooses to earn her

money, that's another story. I don't drink. I'm

better than that. So it peeves me to see her

taking advantage of those poor cowpokes. The

really stupid ones will spend their whole three

months wages in her place in just one night on

cheap whiskey and harlots. It's just not right.

There's some people that think she's a great

lady. I'm not one of them. The men she's put in their

graves just cause they got fooled into thinking

she'd give them a poke. Or the marshal comes

along and guns them down out of jealousy.

Do I think this woman is capable of killing

someone? Yes. She's done it more than once here

in Dodge City. Even shot a woman with a rifle

once.

Dodge City'd be a whole lot better place if she

got what was coming to her. Teach her a

lesson and show her what comes of a woman acting

that way.

Sincerely,

Wilbur Jonas"

"Do you have any comments, Mr. Irish?" Tarly asked.

"No, sir. I believe that the good character of Kitty Russell has been established. One such as this Wilbur Jonus must bear a grudge toward my client."

A grudge?

These people didn't know Wilbur Jonas the way she did. Didn't see how the small man set himself up as Dodge City's own unofficial savior. Had no way of knowing that Jonas sorted people into two categories: the good and the bad. Not many people made it to the elevated status of uprightness and piety, but those that did knew it and lorded it over the others Overflowing. That was the number of those on Jonas' list of tainted individuals. Even children graced this list those being the ones who looked too longingly at candy in the man's open barrels. Temptation waiting for punishment. The sinners, those who spent a nickel for a beer or took a dance with a saloon hostess. A late payment. A failed crop.

Kitty was cognizant of her place on Jonus' roster of transgressors from the first time she entered his mercantile. Then there was the time when he insulted her in Matt's presence. Matt either did not hear or he chose not to do anything about it. _Some men just don't like new things._ They were simple words. But they were meant to call attention to her intimacy with many men. For money. Even though that had ended when Matt Dillon came into her life.

Sickly sweet. Two faced.

"I call Samuel Graystock to the stand."

Graystock moved with a stiff gait. His slightly bowed legs caused him to waddle from side to side Worn at the elbows, his suit jacket had a hint of grime powdering his left cuff.

"State your name and occupation, please."

"Samuel Horacio Graystock. Federal Marshal. Retired."

"What is your interest in this case?"

Graystock looked to the back of the courtroom where a dainty gray haired woman sat next to a young man.

"Been interested in the John Black gang for more than twenty years. Followed every lead. Then I found him."

"Sounds like you've made this one person your life's work."

Again, Graystock sought the lady at the back of the room.

"Can you tell me why?"

"There were some accusations made about the bank teller, Isaiah Randolph. The only one shot during the holdup. Some thought Randolph might have been in on that robbery. Only way his name could be cleared was if Black gave the whole story."

Merryweather hung back for a moment.

"But it was your bullet that killed John Black, was it not?"

A simple nod, Graystock's chin nearly dropping to his chest.

"What did you hope to gain by arresting Miss Russell?"

A forbidding coldness returned to Graystock's dark eyes. "She was part of it. Thought she might clear Randolph before she got what she deserved."

"It appears to me," Merryweather strutted in front of the jury box, "that there might be another reason for this passion of yours. We need to let the jury in on this for the simple sake of this case."

Merryweather waited.

The twelve jurors waited.

The whole courtroom waited.

Graystock cleared his throat. "Isaiah Randolph was married to my sister. Because of the accusations against him, my sister and her son were left penniless. I mean to have that made right."

"Yes, yes. That is why you have provided me with a list of witnesses against Miss Russell. No more questions, Your Honor."

Owen Irish appeared to be sizing up the man in the witness box.

"How long have you been retired?

Graystock clasped and unclasped his hands.

"Ten years," Irish answered his own question. "Can you tell me the circumstances of your retirement?"

"Objection, Your Honor. Relevancy."

"Is this going somewhere, Mr. Irish?"

"Yes, Your Honor. I intend to prove prejudice."

"Continue."

"Mr. Graystock, is it true that you did not retire but were dismissed from the service because of dereliction of duties?"

Bloodless lips worked. "Yes."

"You, in fact, willfully disregarded all your cases save that of the John Black gang."

A whisper. "Yes."

"Did you hate John Black?"

Irish's words bore down with intensity.

"Well, did you? It seems," Irish went on, "that after you spent so much of your career chasing John Black, the cost being your job..."

Graystock sat still as a dead man.

"The only one left is my client. I suppose you'd like to see her hang."

There was a glistening in the black of Graystock's irises. "Aide and abet is not a hanging offense."

"Yes, Mr. Graystock. What will you do if she cannot exonerate your brother-in-law? Hound her for the rest of her life? No more questions."

"You are excused, Mr. Graystock."

"The Prosecution calls Rayburn Tomason to the stand."

Mr. Tomason didn't lift his feet as he hobbled from the back bench of the courtroom to the witness stand. Sparse shocks of white hair covered the top of his spotted head. Thick, contorted knuckles gave away his arthritic hands.

"Mr. Tomason, you were the president of the Lincoln State Bank at the time Miss Russell aided in a robbery..."

"Objection," Irish jumped up, "the alleged aiding, Your Honor."

"Sustained. Please rephrase your question, Counselor."

"At the time the bank robbery by John Black's gang occurred, you were its president. Correct?"

Rheumy streaks trickled from Tomason's eyes. "Yes, sir."

His voice was thin. Reedy.

"Did you happen to observe the defendant prior to this event?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you tell me in what capacity this woman participated?"

"Yes, sir." A hint of pride surged into the old man as he lifted his head. "She came in, a Wednesday, I believe, and wanted to open an account." He chuckled then started to cough. He reached in his pocket and withdrew a yellow stained handkerchief to cover his mouth to catch the juicy expirate.

"Sorry." He kept the damp cloth in his left hand. "I knew she was young, but I thought everyone knew females couldn't open an account without a father, or a husband, or some other man's signature. She kept looking around. My safe, my tellers. Said she'd be back on the morrow with her husband. Mighty young to be married."

"Did she come back the next day?"

"Oh yes. With a man. Couldn't say for certain he was her husband, though."

"And..."

"They were both watching the Brinker's bring in a stack of money, the payroll for the railroad. Stayed a long time making small talk. The man kept watching while the safe got loaded. Watched even more when I set the combination."

"And you didn't think this was strange?"

"Well, we hadn't had a robbery in years. I guess I got kind of complacent."

"You are sure that the defendant is the same woman?"

"Oh, yes. Pretty even back then. Prettier now she's filled out."

"Objection,"

The gavel hit and the subtle chirrups from the jury stopped.

"Did they ever put money in your bank?"

"They were going to come back the next day with a draft from another bank."

"Did they set a time?"

"Just before closing at 6 o'clock. I'd get the paperwork done and it would be a quick transaction."

"Did they come back?"

"Yes. Well, he did. She didn't. Never saw her again till now. A couple other fellows came in with that John Black and things went bad real quick."

"No more questions, Your Honor."

"Mr. Irish?"

"I have many questions for Mr. Tomason."

Tomason choked then hacked up a wad of greenish yellow on the railing of the witness box. "Sorry," he pulled out his kerchief and got rid of the substantial ball of goo. "Can't control it, sorry."

Irish stayed five long steps back from the witness box.

"Didn't the robbers wear masks?"

"Well, yes. But I recognized this John Black's voice from the day before. Also his build. Those black eyes and hair. It was him."

"What role did Isaiah Randolph have in all this?"

"Objection."

"Your Honor, Randolph's name has been circulated in this case from the beginning. Perhaps Mr. Tomason can shed some light on that."

Tarly wrinkled his forehead in thought. "Sustained. Continue Mr. Irish."

"Please answer the question."

"Randolph was my head teller. He participated in all the big transactions. Opened the safe when necessary, took the money back to it."

Irish waited.

"How did he share in this specific transaction?"

"W..well, this John Black told him to open the safe and take out the money."

"And did he?"

"My, yes. Black had that big pistol pointed right at him."

"Anything odd about Randolph's actions?"

Tomason wore the appearance of one deep in thought. "He didn't seem to be nervous. Nor scared."

"Was that his usual manner?"

"No sir. Isaiah was always grumbling, always looking over his shoulder, he'd have had something to say, even if it was under his breathe."

"Then what happened?"

"Isaiah got the money in the sacks and handed it over to Black's boys. They were ready to leave and I felt relieved that no one got hurt. But this here Black shot Isaiah. For no reason."

"Did that particular event cause you to have misgivings about the integrity of Mr. Isaiah Randolph?"

Tomason shifted from one impoverished buttock to the other.

"Thank you. No more questions."

"Well, what do you think?" Doc grumbled just before shoveling a forkful of Mrs. O'Reilly's Irish stew into his mouth. "Sure hope she doesn't get put on the witness stand. That Merryweather'll tare her apart."

Matt took his time.

He wanted to say that it looked real good for Kitty. To avoid the witness stand and the badgering and the embarrassment that would come of it.

But...

"Don't think it'd help her much."

He could see it in the old man's eyes. Doc thought the same thing.

Later, as Matt contemplated the four walls of his room at Mrs. O'Reilly's Boarding House, he thought again about the last time he and Kitty had been in St. Louis. Their room at the Hotel St. Louis had been ten times the size of this postage stamp. A four poster bed with two thick mattresses. Springs that didn't squeak. Any of the times he and Kitty had slaked their passion.

_Oh, God,_ he wailed silently in prayer, _what will I do without her?_

Just the testimony of Tomason was enough to get her put in jail for who knows how long?


	10. Chapter 10

NAILS

-10-

Note: references are made to a character named Bill Atworth who appeared in _Face In the Mirror._

The End of the Trial

Matt had secret baggage of his own. Some parcels were buried beneath mountains of denial while others lay very close to the surface. But in either case only a serious disturbance could wring them from the crypt inside his conscience.

The first man he ever shot. Man? Not a man at all. Just a kid. Like himself. Both of the age where differences of opinion ballooned into justified drastic action.

Like the favors of a saloon girl. The possession of those coy smiles.

Of that body.

He could have avoided it. But a challenged lack of maturity interfered. When Casey Remos drew his gun, Matt's choice was already made. He wanted to live. Even if it meant Remos had to spill his youthful red blood onto the dirt floor of the saloon.

Matt remembered the face. The moment his bullet violated Casey's chest. The boy's realization of approaching death. The surprise. The dimming of the light in Casey's eyes. The exaggerated length of time it took for Remos' knees to buckle. The hollow thud as the kid's head hit the grime on the floor with the eyes still wide open.

But before he, himself, had a chance to...to what? Cry? Show remorse? Wet himself? Deny it ever happened? Run away?

Came the slaps on the back from the other men in the small saloon.

As if he'd killed another human being for their own personal entertainment.

As if Casey Remos was nothing.

As if the young man's life was appreciated upon his death.

Celebrated.

And Matt's own act not to be regretted.

Now, as the years had gone by, Matt knew he could have avoided single death that defined his life from then on.

The reputation.

More killings.

Albeit legitimate since he wore a license to do so on his chest.

The danger in which he put Doc, Kitty, Festus, Newly, and anyone else simply because he called them friend and they called him likewise.

No, he couldn't fault Kitty Russell for keeping her secrets. He couldn't expect her to tell him things when there were events that he was too ashamed to talk about.

Both he and Kitty knew what the word shame was all about.

He always knew there were a few secrets Kitty chose to keep to herself. Before she came to Dodge City. Before their lives gained meaning. But in the recesses of her silences he felt her shame. And that was the truth of the matter.

There were a fair share of men who waltzed into the Long Branch and claimed they'd known her from someplace else. They worked hard to persuade her of that fact. Too hard. Matt didn't like the way they talked, like they owned a piece of her. Like she wasn't a person. Only meat.

Most she could put off, convince with a smile and a good quality whiskey that they were mistaken.

Then came Bill Atworth. She shot him because he was stealing money from her office safe. That's what she told him, that's what he put in his report.

But Matt had wondered nonetheless.

Atworth had something on her. Something bad. Kitty'd gone from being fiercely independent to easily intimidated in three short days. And Matt had gone from mildly interested to savagely jealous when Atworth announced that he and Kitty would share a bedroom.

Kitty pushed Matt away.

Then.

Just like now.

She had to get out of the situation by herself.

Merryweather brought up both incidents when he'd questioned Matt.

Stared at Matt. Dared him.

To tell anything other than the truth.

But the real truth, the only truth, was buried in Kitty Russell's silence.

Merryweather didn't wait for an answer, just turned his back on Matt and let the unspoken word seal the accusation.

Then came the closing statements and the ear splitting shot of Tarly's gavel.

The final arguments were even more brutal than the Prosecution's opening statements. They focused, again, on Kitty's early character. That she'd joined up, knowingly, with a gang of thieves. For the purpose of robbing the Lincoln State Bank.

Her job, to case the bank. Who, Merryweather spoke in a conversational manner, would suspect a young woman of having alterior motives? Slight. Pretty. Perhaps flirtatious. In need of protection.

That, he insisted, was the first of many deceptions.

Her face was on a wanted poster from San Francisco. Wanted for questioning in the mysterious death of one Obadiah Witherspoon Samuelson.

Didn't she gamble and bed men for money on the New Orleans Belle? Traveling up and down the Mississippi River like a transient? She did the same in San Francisco but under a different name, Flame McKestry.

And how was it, exactly, that she attained sole ownership of the Long Branch Saloon in Dodge City, Kansas, at such an early age?

The woman had more than one killing under her belt, Tucker Feron, Jay Wrecken, Etta Stone, Jacob Leech.

Then there was Bill Atworth. A former employer. From San Francisco. There were questions about this man's death and her involvement in it. The fact that it happened in her office in the Long Branch. The Marshall's report stating it was self defense as Atwell was intending to rob the safe.

And just how much coincidence was there when John Black chose the bank in Dodge City as his next venture?

The nails became spikes.

Six feet long.

Owen Irish countered in much the same way he stated his opening remarks: with the simple truth.

Irish made one simple statement to the jury concerning his client's early life as a prostitute. If circumstances were the same—lack of money, family, education—what would they do to survive? As for the men she shot and killed weren't these deaths a simple act of self defense? Would they not do the same to protect their own lives or the lives of their families? As for the wanted poster from San Francisco, three men had stepped forward to exonerate her saying she acted in self defense, that this Samuelson had a grudge against her and intended to do her great bodily harm.

Concerning the bank robbery, Irish remarked that she was nowhere near the Lincoln State Bank when the trouble erupted. She was already on her way someplace else. Because she saw the light about John Black.

Matt saw only a glaze of indifference settle over the jurors.

It was bad.

Really bad.


	11. Chapter 11

Nails

-11 -

Matt's Thoughts

Matt paused on the highest step of the courthouse. He knew Justice was above him in all her rigid white glory but he chose, instead, to look to the East. If he positioned himself just right and looked between the two multi-storied buildings that over shadowed the street, he could almost see the Mississippi River.

He'd had many walks beside it since he'd come to St. Louis. This time. Those other times, in Kitty's company, there had been little time and a whole lot less desire for a quiet walk.

Too much to do. Especially within the confines of the hotel room.

In their own world where no one else existed. No prying eyes to make judgements about a woman of questionable morals and a United States Marshal of impeccable character.

But this trip was different. The small room he shared with Doc Adams closed in on him. Sucked the life out of him. Trapped him.

Only the night and the early morning walks gave him some semblance of calm.

So he could think.

So he could remember.

The good times.

His life was like that old river right now: moving too fast to somewhere. The surface smooth and unrippled; but beneath that calm, a churning mass of silty refuse. Murky. Treacherous. Taking anything in its path straight down to the bottom.

Uncontrollable.

He was scared. For Kitty. The jury would deliver its verdict in a few short hours.

Her fate...

And his...

Would be decided.


	12. Chapter 12

12 -

Verdict

The jurors filed in with a combination of jocularity and small talk plus a few chosen quick furtive glances toward the defendant. Even an upturned nose or two. But behind those gestures lingered the lustfulness of a man with power. Over a woman.

Tarly was dour. Worse, by far, than the previous four days.

Matt speculated, often, on why the judge was so unhappy. Today of all days, this man should be happy. The trial was almost over and he would have the pleasure of sentencing Kitty Russell.

The subtle beginnings of white touched the hair at Kitty's temples. No henna to disguise those encroaching cila in that cold jail cell.

A cough. Loud.

All the people in the small courtroom looked to the foreman of the jury as he stood.

It was the scathing glance the woefully thin man gave Kitty that made Matt clench his fists.

"The Defendant will rise," a monotone from Tarly.

_Be calm._

_You're a United States Marshall._

The wee little voice inside his head screamed out _But I'm also a man in love with the woman on trial!_

The frangible bailiff took the folded piece of paper from the foreman then gave it to Judge Tarly.

Matt could swear he saw the left corner of Tarly's lip rise. For just a split second.

The slip of paper returned, the foreman spoke in a loud, clear voice.

"We find the Defendant, Kathleen Russell, guilty of aiding and abetting in the commission of a bank robbery and subsequent murder of Isaiah Randolph."

_Guilty._

_They found her guilty!_

Matt felt Doc's hand on his shoulder. Supportive.

But Matt couldn't get rid of his own feelings of ...of what? Loss? Betrayal?

Kitty turned. The first time during this whole trial period, to Matt. Tears. Not for herself. For him.

She seemed to want to say something, to make a move to touch him.

But she kept her mouth and her hands to herself.

"Sentencing will be next week Tuesday. 9 a.m." The gavel signaled the end of this session.

She didn't look back as the bailiff led her away.

Didn't see Owen Irish sink into his chair as if his knees had failed him.

Matt put his hand on Irish's shoulder, "You did your best."

The light haired young man stood, finding his strength once more. "I'm sorry. They just didn't hear a thing I said."

_Yup._

Matt betted that not a single juror ever paid any attention to Kitty's positive accomplishments.


	13. Chapter 13

Nails

7 C -

Sentencing and final words

"The Defendant will rise."

"Miss Kathleen Russell, you have been," Judge Tarly had a more animated quality to his voice today, "found guilty of the crime of aiding and abetting. This court," the man scowled at Kitty, "remands you to the Wichita State Women's Reformatory for a period of not less than one and a half years. Release date to be September 20. I advise you," the judge leaned toward Kitty, "to make use of your time there to learn how a respectable woman should behave. Sentence effective immediately."

The gavel cracked one last time and it was over.

Irish leaned toward Kitty. Matt read the words on the younger man's lips, "It could have been a lot worse."

_A lot worse?_

_A year and a half._

_An eternity without this lovely woman by his side._

The bailiff strode toward Kitty. To take her away.

Irish stepped between the emaciated bailiff and Kitty, "Please, at least let her say her goodbyes."

There was a moment of indecision on the man's part before he finally stepped back.

Kitty turned, faced Matt first, than Doc.

Doc didn't hesitate. He threw his arms around her, held her as close as he could with the railing separating them.

"Keep that Irish temper of your's under control, I want you back quick." Doc kissed her on the cheek as his own tears streamed down his face. "You gotta talk to Matt, honey." Then the old man stepped aside but hesitated to take his hand from hers.

"I"ll come see you," Matt forced himself to say.

"No, you won't."

_Was she putting distance between them again? Now?_

"I..I couldn't bear that Matt," she put her hand ever so gently on the strings of his tie and stroked them, "and neither could you. September 20, next year, you be waiting at the prison door."

He never put his arms around her in public. It went against his grain to show affection to this woman in that way. For both their protection. But in private...But today he had no choice. Eighteen months. She was right, neither of them would survive a meeting that would only end in another separation.

He threw his arms around her, drew her close, ignoring the rail, and kissed her on the lips. He squeezed her tight, wanted to meld her body inside his own. So he could remember.

How long he held her like that he had no idea.

When he let go, she'd have to leave.


	14. Chapter 14

14

The Proctor Household, Houston, Texas

"Girl!" Adelia Proctor raised her voice as much as a seventy some year old woman could. It came out more like a squeak and a rattle.

Kitty jumped. Her mind had been elsewhere as she fingered the only thing she'd been allowed to take with her, the finely carved ivory brooch. The one Matt had given her so many years before. It made her sad to know she'd have to wait another six months to see him again and yet glad that the time was much shorter than it had been one year ago.

"I've seen that look before, young lady." Adelia crossed stick thin arms splashed with darker age spots over her flat chest. "You're thinking about a man."

Kitty dipped a corner of a terrycloth rag into the bowl of warm water sitting on the side table next to Adelia's bed. Attempting to wipe off Adelia's face, Kitty was not surprised when the frail woman's left hand snatched the rag away from her. Adelia's fine wisps of long pearly colored hair moved with the breeze.

"Everybody thinks I can't do anything for myself." Adelia dragged the pale blue rag across her face, once, then let it fall away. Her face had gone deathly pale and the sharp points of her collar bone rose and fell in heavy, unrhythmic slumps. A wettish rattle sounded in her throat.

Amidst the spaciousness of this room with the bright light of the sun streaming in through the tall windows and Adelia's easy way, Kitty Russell had to admit to thinking about a man. A very tall one. With blue eyes. Sandy brown hair with a teasing of white above the ears. Expansive shoulders. Huge hands, rough and calloused. More than a few puckered scars hidden beneath his clothing. A big...

"You're not going to tell me anything, are you?"

Kitty made the lustful smirk on her lips disappear as she took the dropped rag and put it into the basin.

If there was one thing Kitty Russell had perfected well in the last year, it was the fine art of silence. Adelia Proctor was a dear, sweet woman but words said had a way of leaking out to individuals not worthy of hearing those secrets.

Stuart Haynes had given her that directive. Keep your mouth shut. Do what you're told. Don't make a fuss.

It had been good advice.

The Wichita State Women's Reformatory was still not a nice place to be for one year out of her life but with the warden being a friend of Matt's it could have been worse. And in the whole scheme of things prison had been a lot like a card game. The challenge was to play the cards she was dealt and to avoid any risky slight of hand.

Prostitutes. Adulterers. Fornicators. Drunks. Morphine addicts.

Those were her block mates.

All were pale skinned, like herself. Some came from wealthy families. Others from middle class. A very few from the bottom of society.

The Reformatory had one job: to improve the character of the women inside so that they could return to society as refined ladies. Who knew how to cater to a man's every whim, to chat with reasonable intelligence. To return to their proper place as marriageable pieces of property for the benefit of their families.

She objected, silently of course, to what was deemed a refined lady.

These last six months were to be the final test. The demonstration of her 'newly' acquired skills.

The experience made her think of Panacea Sykes. Of how she had not appreciated the woman's fanatical attention to the feminine graces while she'd been a young girl. But also saw, now, how she'd utilized those lessons in her business at the Long Branch.

There were many things she hadn't been grateful enough for having. Until the day Samuel Graystock slapped a pair of cold iron cuffs on her wrists and took it all away.

"That man you're thinking about, will he be waiting for you when this is all over?" Adelia's breathing had returned to slow even breaths, her color to its usual pallidness.

Matt would be waiting. He had to be. But...

If he wasn't...

If he was dead...

If he didn't care any more...

She chewed on those nightmarish thoughts. Found them tough as old steak. Not palatable.

Downright frightening.

She would die a very slow, lonely, death if either of those thoughts became a reality.

"Be a fool if he didn't. My son, Horace, he likes to get the good looking women from that Reformatory. Like you. Thinks it makes him look good that he takes in a woman on parole. But you're a darn sight smarter than any of the other ones ever were." She wrinkled her nose, "Heard you even ran your own business. A saloon. Could help that fool son of mine some."

_Had Adelia just given her a compliment?_

"When my husband was alive," the brittle lady clothed within a white cotton nightgown got a far off look in her eye that was a mix of serenity and sadness.

"He had his faults, but he was a good man. Built a good business, railroads, cattle, lumber. We had good times. He was the only man I ever knew."

Adelia gave Kitty a wink.

"Figure you've had your share of men what with your business and all. Could probably put most of those men into the same category."

Kitty had to smile. Was this old lady talking about the very earthy topic of fornication?

"Miss Adelia," Kitty said gently, "you make me blush with your words."

A cackle came from Adelia.

"I'm sure not, young lady. Beats talking about my aches and pains."

Kitty patted the blue veined hand of Adelia Proctor and stood up.

"I loved Horace's dad with all my heart. Horace is the only one I brought to birth. And I worry for him. It just isn't simple to make money anymore. There's conniving. Bribery. No honest hard work."

"He takes care of you. He loves you."

A dainty snort escaped the woman's nose. "I wonder. He's probably waiting impatiently for me to die. Then I wonder how long he'll live."

Kitty tucked the light coverlet around Adelia's bony shoulders, took the now cool pan of water and left the well furnished bedroom.

Adelia Proctor had everything. A beautiful three story house in Houston's upscale sixth ward; servants to cater to her every need; a son who, Kitty thought, took the time to find good care for his mother. But best of all, Adelia had memories. Storehouses in her mind, of happy times. Of private, intimate times. Sad times.

All the things that made for a full life.

But yet the old woman was scared. Not for herself. But for her son.

Kitty climbed the narrow stairs to her tiny room on the third floor. Within was a narrow bed, a tall dresser with five drawers that looked like it'd been dragged over gravel, and three drab gray dresses hanging from a rack. But the only thing that made it bearable was the brooch Matt had given her.

She opened the window and breathed in the tangy salt air that came from the Gulf of Mexico sixty miles to the east. Warm. Full of the heat of the sun that lingered into the long darkening evenings.

Her body felt the heat. But it was for Matt Dillon's touch. The longing for the ecstasy that his maleness provided. Wishing for the screaming release that their coupling brought. The tender caresses as the passion diminished. His scent. His wit.

And the simple pleasure of having him in the bed beside her.

Was he still breathing? Had he escaped the reality of a bullet?

Surely someone would have let her know if...

But she didn't want to know. Until September 20. And that was her decision, and hers alone.

She took off her clothes, daubed at the sweat that ran freely between her breasts, and knew that this night would be a bad one. She would wake from the dreams of Matt's arousing touch only to find herself alone.


	15. Chapter 15

15-

Horace Proctor

The high back of the chair, with its intricately carved wood painted a gaudy deep golden color, gave Horace Proctor the appearance of a king with a crown on his head. China, delicately patterned with pink roses and green leaves, lay before him on a lace tablecloth. Silver serving dishes, lids still covering the contents, sat half way down the long, narrow table.

Horace took the linen napkin and draped it over his right knee before he nodded.

"You may serve me now."

Kitty curtsied before she stepped from the shadows near the far wall. The starched material of her gray dress chafed her skin. And she'd had to ask for help from the cook, Mazzie, in attaching the brilliant white pinafore to her drab gray dress. She was the epitome of primness in a maid's outfit. But only the frilly but equally white maid's cap that covered the pile of red hair on top of her head could top it with justice.

Two minutes before six p.m. she'd watched Mazzie place the covered bowls on the table. There were four of them. Three the same size. Mr. Proctor entered, sat down.

She had to get it right. Mr. Proctor expected nothing less.

So she was told.

She uncovered the small soup tureen and ladled a clear broth into a soup bowl.

She stepped back into the shadow and waited, listening as Horace Proctor silently spooned the liquid into his mouth. After he'd wiped his mouth with his linen napkin he nodded once again.

Kitty took the soup bowl and noticed that Horace had a small bald spot on the top of his head. She also saw that his attention was focused first on her hand, then her wrist, and then her face. She turned away.

She picked up the large dinner plate before uncovering the farthest serving bowl. Red beans and rice. After placing a small amount on the plate, she looked at him. He nodded. She replaced the cover and moved to the next bowl. Mashed potatoes with a dimple of melted butter. She scooped a larger portion only because Mazzie assured her that the Mister especially liked the potatoes. She waited. He nodded. The covered platter was next. After she'd uncovered it, the room took on the savory aroma of beef smothered in rich, dark brown gravy. The Mister also liked beef so she gave him a large portion before spooning the heavy sauce over the top. She waited. This time he used his hand in a sideways gesture. Like a blackjack player when he wants no more cards dealt to him.

She placed the filled plate in the spot between Proctor's knife, spoon, and fork then stepped back into the shadows.

Tailored three piece suit. Dark. A golden patterned vest. White shirt with a starched collar that climbed halfway up his short neck. A wide cravat of dark green and burgundy silk. Small hands well experienced in the fine art of using eating utensils.

Medium build. A pleasant face. Clean shaven. Dark hair that lay against his head in distinct waves. Except for the bald spot.

"Miss Russell,"

His voice was a low tenor. Not forceful.

"You've been inspecting me for ten minutes."

Kitty lowered her head and stared at the carpeted floor. "I'm sorry, Mr. Proctor."

He wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin before throwing it on his empty plate. He sat back in the chair and grinned as he motioned for her to come out of the darkness.

"No, Miss Russell, you are not sorry."

A sour feeling came over her.

"They've taught you well. But I know better. You're just going through the motions, doing what's expected. But," he slid his chair back and stood up, "I imagine old habits die hard."

Kitty wanted to look him in the eye. Hold that stare until until the man looked away. First.

She didn't. She couldn't.

"My mother likes you. Says you're the best one she's had so far."

Kitty lifted her head. "Mrs. Proctor is a lovely lady."

"That's better. You've got to know when it's permissible to talk. I don't care for any coffee and I've certainly had enough to eat. You may clear the table."

"Yes, Mr. Proctor."

Horace poured himself a finger of brandy from the side buffet as Kitty made four trips from the dining room to the kitchen.

She got the feeling it was Proctor who was doing the observing this time.

"Will there be anything else, Mr. Proctor?"

"Yes. Will you have a drink with me?"

Kitty hesitated. "Mr. Proctor, I don't think that would be appropriate on my part."

He took a clean glass, filled it half way, then handed it to her.

"Take it. I say so."

That part of _will there be anything _else still rang inside her head.

She sipped the dark amber liquid. She hadn't had Napoleon in a year.

She tried hard not to swoon her appreciation.

"I like only the best. Miss Russell, Kitty, in two weeks I'll be having a dinner here. Four or five people. All men. My mother is not to find out about this. I simply," his voice raised in frustration, "cannot tolerate another of her lectures about the way my father conducted his business and how I differ from the man!"

Proctor paced the floor, seven steps, back and forth. Three times.

"Mazzie knows. She won't talk. Knows better. I'd put her back on the street where I found her if she did."

Kitty nodded as she placed the empty glass on the buffet.

"These men will be coming to discuss a business venture. And to be observing you. News travels fast when it concerns a woman owning a saloon. They're curious if the spunk has been driven out of you."

He caught her surprise.

"No, no. Don't get me wrong. They know better than to tamper with you. They'll be on their best behavior. We're not drunken cowboys down here."

"Will that be all?"

"For now."

Adelia needed a glass of fresh water before Kitty could retire for the night. As she descended the sweeping staircase to the first floor she heard voices coming from the library to her left.

Two voices. Both attempting to outdo the other in volume. One belonged to Horace Proctor. The other, unfamiliar.

She lightened her step as she passed by the closed door.

"I'll not stand for that."

"Then I'll need more money."

Kitty entered the kitchen, took a large pitcher of water from the ice box, then filled a tall glass.

"Morgan's Bend."

"Galveston."

"Shipping channel."

"Loss of money."

Kitty hurried past the room for the second time and hoped that neither of the men had a gun in their possession.


	16. Chapter 16

Nails

16-

Proctor came late for his breakfast of grits, ham, and coffee. Then moved in even slower motion as he ate. Three cups of steaming coffee each sipped more leisurely then the one before.

Kitty just wanted the time to pass so she could get out of this house. For the first time. In three weeks.

She would accompany Mazzie on the cook's twice weekly excursion to the market ten blocks away.

Kitty Russell was not a sun person. Being both a red head and fair complected she'd learned early in life that she and the sun did not have a good relationship. Fair skin burned quickly. The freckles that spattered her body could, with the sun, turn darker. She was not oblivious to the ravages of sun and wind on the hard working prairie women that came through Dodge and she wanted no part of it.

But she needed to feel the sun, breathe the fresh outside air, hear the wind as it moved through the leaves of the trees.

Just for the illusion of freedom that it would bring to her.

"We be walkin. Mistah Proctah he don give us no buggy ride dis stuff. Don," Mazzie's deep sepia eyes challenged, "be thinkin yous kin be gettin no pretties fer yerself."

Mazzie hadn't spoken but twenty words to Kitty in three weeks.

But she knew something Mazzie did not. Complements of Mrs. Proctor, she had money to buy a jar of henna. _To keep those nasty____creeping white hairs from becoming a nuisance._ Adelia knew something of the vanity of her servant Kitty Russell.

Mazzie handed Kitty the elongated tongue of the small wagon. The woman's upraised chin let Kitty know who was in charge of this outing.

Just outside the white picket fence that enveloped the Proctor house and property, Kitty paused to look from where she'd come. Pristine and painted white, the house gave the impression of coolness. Of purity. She knew differently only because her room on the third floor in the corner peak was damp with sun-heated air that had no place to go.

Three weeks ago it had been much more impressive. The day she'd arrived with only one small bag. Delivered to the front door by none other than Warden Haynes, himself, along with a stern lecture on proper behavior. The wrap around porch had caught her attention first, then the sun porch on the east end of the second floor. The two tiny dormer windows in the peak had not been noticed at all. It had all promised to be a pleasant change from the Reformatory with its stone walls.

Mazzie was tugging at the long sleeve of her dress and Kitty had to move on.

Two houses down, on the corner of 8th and Longmont, Kitty had forgotten the Proctor house and all its supposed grandeur.

"Oranges."

A loud voice.

"Greens."

Ebony skin. A light patina of sweat adding sheen.

"Fresh from the bayou farms."

The faded calico dress hung shapeless and still while the person filling it moved with ease.

"Mazzie!"

"Shady."

Kitty watched as the women stormed toward each other; one very large and round, the other small and lean. They embraced and the smiles were wide and affectionate.

Kitty lost their conversation the instant they slipped into the rhythmic, chopped jargon that resembled Negro speak in her native New Orleans. She stood quietly.

Until Shady turned her way.

"Who your white working gal?"

Mazzie disengaged her thick arms and motioned for Kitty to come closer.

"Dis be Kadleen Russell. She be on 'o dose Reformtory gals Proctah be so keen on."

Shady looked over every inch of Kitty from the tips of her toes to the flat wide brimmed hat she wore on her head.

"She alright," Mazzie threw in after the silence got too long.

"Anythin," Shady asked, "be goin on dat house?"

"Big party. All Mistah Proctah's boys be comin. Dis one," Mazzie pointed at Kitty with a chin lost in folds of fat, "she gona be seen by deez men. Mistah Proctah he knowed how to get his boys thinkin 'bout somethin else den dey should."

"Mazzie."

"Oh, Kitty, don worry none 'bout Shady here. She good girl. Keep her mout closed tight." A big wide smile showed a missing tooth. "But she keep dem ears open," Mazzie elbowed Shady in the ribs. "Mistah Proctah he not have nothin blame you fer."

Kitty got a very heavy feeling in her stomach about Horace Proctor.

"You save best greens fer us, you hear Shady, girl?"

Kitty felt like she was being watched as she and Mazzie continued down Longmont.

"Shady she smart. Got herself readin' and writin'."

Kitty would reserve judgement on the slender woman until the party was over.

Wood smoke. Hot oil. Noise. Human and machine and animal. Blacks. Whites. Yellows.

Kitty had come in on the New Orleans, St. Louis, and Chicago railroad and missed this foul smelling hustle.

A flat bottomed steamboat, tied up at Allen's Landing and stacked with bales of cotton, was being off loaded. The boat rose a bit higher in the oily, greenish water with each removed bale.

"Mistah Proctah bidness." Mazzie pointed in a direction opposite that of the working men to a high building spouting out a column of white and gray smoke. "Mistah Proctah cotton mills."

Mazzie pulled at Kitty's arm and they went in a completely different direction.

By the end of the morning her feet throbbed and her skin felt hot. She got her henna. And she'd learned just how wealthy Horace Proctor really was.


	17. Chapter 17

-17-

The Banquet

Kitty wiped her forehead with the ruffled edge of her apron. Manners told her she should not do that. But the alternative was letting the big salty drops fall into the bowls or platters she had to carry between the kitchen and the dining room. The discrete swabbing, done before she picked up the first platter and headed back into the dining room, was just enough to keep the moisture from becoming obvious to the men she had to serve.

The kitchen was stifling but Mazzie worked over an iron cookstove as if the day were a mere seventy five degrees.

The two women shared a bit of calm. In that moment they could hear the men on the other side of the closed door slurping fish gumbo.

"I peeks in der. Don like dat police mon."

That police man had a big gold plated badge pined to his cheap blue suit jacket. Houston. Police Chief.

Horace had introduced him as Manfred Duval.

And as soon as Duval had spoken, Kitty recognized the voice.

Kitty agreed with Mazzie. There was something about Duval, the way he delved deeply into everyone and everything he looked at. Including herself. Wanting to see what motivated people. What they had to offer him.

All the men seated at the table were strange. And that included Horace Proctor, himself, who sat at the head of the table.

Why Proctor insisted all the windows be closed up tight and the curtains drawn was beyond Kitty's thinking. If he wanted to keep this meeting a secret he should have done something to conceal the two saddle horses and the two small buggys tethered to the picket fence next to the street.

"Dey be done. Go get dem soup bowls."

The air in the dining room was at least ten degrees cooler than the kitchen and for that reason alone, she went gratefully into the dining area.

"I'm going to have to get me one of those reformatory women."

Samson Ormsby was a squatty little man who overflowed his clothes. It was obvious the only real work he did was to put fork or spoon to mouth.

"And just what would you do with her?" Well dressed and with a slicked down patch of light brown hair on top of his head, Juan SanMarcos challenged.

Kitty slipped back into the kitchen with five large, empty soup bowls. As soon as she set then down, she wiped the sweat from her forehead.

Mazzie had another platter ready to go, this one of sliced beef surrounded with whole, skinned, stewed tomatoes.

"Two hands dis. Heavy. Go."

"Railroad cut into your business, eh?" Proctor smiled as he stabbed a slab of slightly bloody beef, then slid two hefty tomatoes next to it. "Good beef. Proctor beef."

Ormsby turned a not so subtle shade of red as his shoulders rose up.

"How's your mother coming along?" Manfred Duval asked.

"Good as can be expected."

"Bet she gives you lots of advice on running your businesses." Duval.

"Yes," Marcos spoke, "and I'm sure you take every word seriously."

As four men laughed too loudly, Proctor turned an angry shade of purple as he passed the platter of beef. "Didn't tell her. And she's deaf as a stump, she'll never know you men were here. Kathleen,"

Kitty came to Proctor's side and curtsied.

"Coffee. Now."

Another curtsy and she was through the door and back with a carafe of coffee.

"So, you ran a saloon in Kansas, eh?" Ormsby followed from the tips of her fingers to where her arm joined her torso. Then stopped. Sniffed.

Temptation. It was strong. She wanted to tell this well dressed dumpy man that the cowboys she dealt with in Dodge City were more mannerly. But, after she'd first looked left to see Proctor's subtle shake of the head, she didn't. Simply withdrew with Ormsby's cup barely half full.

"That's what the warden told me. Said she learned her lesson and was fit to come work as a domestic. No more being a bad girl for her."

"Yup," Tobias Heinlein hadn't said a word until now. He wore a tweed jacket that did nothing to conceal a gun in a shoulder harness beneath it. "Nice change from coloreds and Mexi's."

"That it is, Tobias."

"Any of you been down to the opera house?" Juan SanMarcos slid a piece of beef onto his plate but avoided the tomatoes. "Got a Gilbert and Sullivan that's selling out every night."

"That spur line is sure taking its toll."

Ormsby dropped his fork on his plate. "I am not here to be harassed about what my father did."

Proctor daubed at the corners of his mouth trying to hide a laugh. "Old ones just don't see that it's a new world. We men of business have to fight for everything these days."

"Takes a lot of money to get what you want." Ormsby.

By the time this round of plates and serving platters were taken up Kitty didn't care to notice how hungry she was. The smell of beef and tomatoes turned her stomach. Or maybe it was the men.

"We's almos done, Kadleen," Mazzie cut five large pieces from a shoe fly pie and placed each piece on a desert plate beside a fresh fork. "Tell dem dey gets da pudding last."

Kitty didn't need to hear Mazzie's favorite word. She was already out the door.

"I believe I'm going to have to steal that cook of yours, Proctor." Duval.

"Only way you could afford one on that crummy salary of yours." Ormsby.

Heinlein put his right hand inside his jacket but never let his eyes stray from Ormsby.

"Easy, Toias. We're all just having a bit of fun with each other."

The kitchen, even though it was hot, was a lot cooler than the dining room. There was a tension in that room. Kitty could feel it gathering speed. Two more trips into the inferno and she could retire for the night.

"Just how many people you got working for you?" Heinlein.

"Just Mazzie the cook, and this here Reformatory woman." Proctor shoved himself away from the table and stood up. "Just Ma and me, don't need a big staff like the president of the Galveston Wharf Company."

Ormsby looked at the remains of the banana pudding and sighed. "You are annoying me, Proctor. I know dam well whose idea this ship channel is. Yours. Back stabbing son of a …."

"Gentlemen," Horace broke in, "let's retire to the library for some good Cuban cigars and a round or two of Tennessee whiskey. Settle our stomachs and our differences."

Ormsby threw his napkin on the table.

"Somethin's gona blow, Mazzie." Kitty took a tray of soiled dishes to the sink.

"I tinks so, too. You go check on da old lady den come get somethin to eat. You too skinny."

"I am not the least bit hungry."

"Ya. Dem men, dey not nice. Most dem, even Mistah Proctah, want between your legs."

Kitty had no response to that.

"Go."

And she did.


	18. Chapter 18

18 -

"Would you like a glass of water before going to sleep?"

Mrs. Proctor was in a freshly laundered nightdress sitting on the edge of her bed.

It was a nightly routine. Kitty would help the woman wash and change to a clean nightgown, then help her into bed. But tonight Kitty had changed that coarse of procedure by suggesting the glass of water instead of Adelia, herself, requesting it. A minor deviation from the norm, but one Kitty did with a sly smile.

"You," Adelia raised an arthritic finger in Kitty's face, "think your so smart."

But it was Adelia's pretty smile that made it worthwhile. "Got one over on an old lady. Hope your satisfied."

It was Kitty's turn to feign ignorance.

"Now you have to tell me why you got sent to prison, smart girl like you."

If anyone other than Adelia had pleaded for that information Kitty would have walked away. But this old lady was a sweetheart. And she trusted her. Now.

And she needed to talk.

"I'm not so savvy as you think, Mrs. Proctor. I thought I had the world by the tail when I was a young girl. Then I got hungry."

Adelia reached out and covered the top of Kitty's hand with her own. "Gotta survive. I had some lean years, too. Know how it feels when your stomach's hitting your backbone."

"This man offered me a roof over my head and something to eat if..if I did things for him."

"Things?"

"Well, yes, there was that. Then he asked me to do one more thing. Just go into a bank and ask some questions, look around. I had a feeling it might lead to something else but I did it anyway. Thought John cared for me. My own stupidity."

"Men!" Adelia spat out the word with distaste. "And you were so young."

"I ran away from him before the job went down but a man got killed and the money stollen. It was partially my fault. That's why I got sent to prison."

"Now you have to tell me about the man that makes you hot all over." Adelia wrinkled her nose and giggled like a little girl. "I know you love him."

"Yes. Yes I do. But I hurt him. Bad."

"I don't believe that."

Adelia's words were soft, gentle.

"I did. During that whole trial I wouldn't talk to him. Not with my friend, Doc, either. Really didn't want to look into their faces. See their disappointment."

Kitty took a moment to wipe the streams of salty tears that had slipped from her eyes.

"Matt's a lawman. And he's a good one. Not corrupt. And I just couldn't face him. What I put him through."

"Did you ever tell him the reason?"

"The reason? Didn't think I needed to. Saw it in Matt's eyes when Sam Graystock put the cuffs on me. Matt died just a little that day. I expect a piece of him died every day of that dam trial. So no. I kept him away. Pushed him away. I hurt him so bad."

"You did say goodbye, I hope."

"Yes. But I told him not to visit me in prison."

Adelia let her head hang down but she never let go of Kitty's hand.

"Hang on to your good times. Don't ever forget about them."

Adelia took her own hand back.

"I do believe, Kathleen, I'd like that glass of water now."

Wiping a few more tears, Kitty answered. "Coming right up."

"You greedy son of a ..."

"You can't talk to me that way."

"Oh ya. Watch me."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen."

Kitty tried not to listen to the shouts coming from the other side of the library door as she came down the stairs. It wasn't working so she moved faster, going into the kitchen, ignoring Mazzie as the woman washed dishes, getting the glass, filling it with cold water, and only then retracing her steps faster than before.

The men were even louder now.

"You cost me big time."

"You're crooked."

She heard scuffling. Glass breaking.

The noise didn't end until she was inside Adelia's room and that door closed tightly.

They were still going at it as Kitty climbed the steep stairs to her room. Something was going to break with those angry men. She'd seen it played out in the setting of the Long Branch. But men were the same whether they were cowboys or wealthy business men. Once they passed a certain point, anything could happen.

If only she could live her life over again things would be different. She wouldn't be here, away from Matt. Wouldn't be privy to whatever was going to happen two floors down.

She unpinned the dainty white maid's cap with the flounce and tossed it on the dresser.

"Son of a..."

Loud enough to hear through two doors and up two flights of stairs.

She slipped the pinafore off along with dress and tossed it on the bed. She stood in front of the small mirror looking at her deeply freckled skin. The sun burn two weeks ago still lingering.

A pop.

Gunshots.

Screaming.

She was not going to go down there. Horace Proctor could clean up his own mess.

Heavy, very heavy footsteps.

In the house?

Two screams.

Both female.

One strong.

The other weak.

Both interrupted by two shots.

Adelia!

Kitty's hand was on the inside doorknob.

She heard the footsteps, hollow, threatening, coming down the hall.

To her room.

Her door burst inward.


	19. Chapter 19

-19-

Matt in Houston

Black. White. Yellow. Brown.

Scurrying in and out of buildings. Up and down the streets. Following one another in an orderly line. Singly. Carrying boxes. Empty handed. Silent. Chattering inanely. Ants.

No end to the commotion.

Matt hated Houston and he'd only been in the city for an hour.

This mule drawn streetcar was a novelty to him. He thought of Festus' Ruth and how hard it would be for that animal to pull this heavy iron car with fifteen rows of seats filled with people. But this animal did it only because the iron wheels rolled on smooth road bed.

The driver stopped, as directed, at the corner of Rusk and Bagby and waited patiently as Matt and three other individuals made their way to the front of the car.

$1.

A steep price.

But Matt paid it with no objection only after he'd asked this question.

"Who's the chief of police here?"

"Duval," the deeply sun browned man said as he received Matt's token.

Three stories, stucco, blindingly white against a deep blue sky. The sign above the double doors boldly stated 'Houston Police Department'.

Once inside the door, he swam in a sea of indigo contrasted with dark furniture. The men behind the myriad of desks had reams of bright white paper in front of them.

Matt could relate to the paperwork.

Hats, indigo blue, hung on pegs on the walls behind them. Those men standing had a white strip coursing down the side of their indigo trousers.

Very fashionable.

But not practical if they had to ride long distances on the prairie in the hot sun.

Indigo blue. Kitty had a dress that color. It hung off her shoulders. He always wondered just how she managed to keep it from falling down and exposing those lovely soft breasts of hers.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"Yes," thankful for the diversion, "I'd like to speak with Chief of Police Duval, please."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No."

"I'll see if he's free."

The reedy, gray haired man rose from his desk only to disappear down a dark hall.

Tile floor. Black and what should have been white. Dirt. Brown. Six foot tall windows, narrow, dark framing to match the dark walls.

"Manfred Duval, here."

Matt took the out thrust hand and noticed that he could look the man in the eye. But he had a good eighty pounds on the light haired policeman.

"I'm U.S. Marshall Matt Dillon and I'm here about the disappearance of Kitty Russell."

Duval's pleasant smile fell on the floor.

"And your interest in this case...?"

"I know the woman. I want, I have, to know what happened, why, and what's being done about it."

Duval stiffened.

"And how did you hear of this?"

"Warden Haynes."

"Come into my office and we'll talk privately."

Matt followed Duval past an orderly row of uniformly dressed men sitting behind equally uniform dark wooden desks.

All these men and even Duval, himself, were never out in the field judging by the paleness of their skin.

"Drink?"

"No, thank you."

Duval's chair creaked as he sat down.

"There's not much to tell, Marshal. After the murders of Horace Proctor, his elderly mother, and the cook a week ago, this woman of whom you speak seems to have vanished into thin air. We've put out bulletins on her all over the state."

_Thin air._

"She's our only suspect."

"Why is that?" Matt inched to the edge of his flat wooden seat. "She was on probation. Where would she have gotten a gun? I assume that was the weapon. And why would she have done this? She had only six more months till she was free."

Duval sat back in his chair. "Never know what provokes these kind of women."

_These kind of women._

Matt did his best to steady his nerves.

"I'd like to see the scene of the murders."

Duval pursed his thin lips into a bloodless strait line.

His chair creaked again.

"Alright. Perhaps some fresh eyes will lead to something."


	20. Chapter 20

-20 -

Matt at the Proctor Home

First there was that iron horse. Buck passed gas but the smell had never lingered like the two full days of acrid coal smoke.

Now this!

Matt traded a view of the backside of a mule for a sway backed roan that moved as slowly as three hundred year old Methuselah on a fast day. The easy ride in a street car gave way to the jostle of a six passenger surrey covered in dust and mud so thick the black was hidden.

Then there was the sulky companion to his left.

Duval.

Matt breathed a bit easier when they'd left the congested narrow streets of the city proper and moved into the residential part of Houston.

Nice houses. Not big. Not small. All with small side barns for livestock and carriages.

Trees.

Tall and spreading.

Trees fascinated him only because there were so few on the prairie around Dodge City.

"This is the street."

Duval pulled the left rein and the horse lumbered onto a sparsely inhabited street. Though extremely few in number, what houses were there appeared to touch the sky.

Stately.

Opulent.

"Oranges, Mistah?"

The voice came from beneath the shade of a drooping elm. A coal black woman in a faded dress stood behind a dried out wooden cart.

"Fresh from de grove. You try."

As she approached the surrey Duval slapped the horse's backside then hollered back, "Don't bother us."

Matt turned to see the woman standing in the middle of the street still holding up the small mottled green and orange colored fruit like an offering.

"God damned niggers."

Three houses down on this street. If he'd known which one was the Proctor home Matt would have gotten out of the moving surrey and walked.

Alone.

Duval pulled back on the reins with all his strength. The gelding, taken by surprise, shrieked as it stumbled to a stop.

Duval hopped out, reins in hand, then tied them to a hitching post on the street side of a white picket fence.

Matt envied the man his strong legs as he, himself, got out more cautiously favoring his right leg.

The Proctor house was a white three story work of wooden art. Filigree adorned the underside of the porch eaves so much that it gave the appearance of fancy lace. Lots of tall, narrow windows faced the street. The inside hidden by curtains.

The second floor had windows equally as large.

A steeply pitched roof with two jutting dormers a quarter the size of the windows beneath it finished it off.

"Beaut, ain't it?"

Matt looked down at the combination of dirt and dead grass around his feet.

"Find any tracks out here?"

"Nope. Course this place got a lot of attention what with Proctor's influence and all. Had men swarming all over."

Matt knelt down and picked up a handful of dust and grit. He let it fall through his hands.

Using the end of the hitching post, Matt stood.

"Check around the house? The windows?"

"Like I said, Dillon. Lots of police searching this place. We didn't find anything."

"No forced entry?"

"So, sir. But then we know why that was."

Matt followed Duval to the front door, watched as he stuck a huge silver hued key into the lock.

Duval pushed the door open then stepped aside.

Choking.

A moist blast of stifling air rolled out of the house.

A fetid stench.

Stomach roiling.

Matt pulled a neatly folded red and white bandana from his back pocket and put it over his nose and mouth.

"What is that smell?"

Duval took the lead and Matt followed him past a small, cozy parlor on the left that adjoined a dining area by an open arch.

A wide curving staircase lay in front of them but Duval, instead of continuing up those stairs, opened a double set of dark wooden doors on his right.

Just enough light came through a crack between the curtain panels to allow Matt to see the dark splashes of something on the marble fireplace mantel, the small glass topped table between two leather couches, and the book shelf. An even bigger deep black puddle had soaked into a figured carpet of purples, golds, and greens.

The smell.

"This is where we found Proctor."

A single balloon brandy snifter sat on the mantel, three on the table. A shattered one, glass spread out on the carpet nearest the blood, lay on the floor.

"Didn't die with just one shot. Never figured him for being that strong."

"You knew him?" Matt dropped the thin cloth from his nose.

"Well, sure. Everybody in Houston knows-knew, Horace Proctor. He was a big man. Working for the the new Buffalo Bayou project."

Matt took one breath and without delay put the neckerchief back over his nose. It was either that or he'd add his undigested lunch to the mess already on the floor.

Cigars.

Butts.

Some half smoked. Others barely started.

"What's this Buffalo Bayou you're talking about?" Matt heard his words come out muffled.

"Proctor's plan was to dredge the bayou, make it deep enough, wide enough so's bigger boats, ocean going ones, could come up to Houston. Was working on Federal money for the project."

"That go over well?"

Duval shrugged his bony shoulders. "Sure, if you're the one stands to make the most money off it."

"S'pose you and your officers didn't find any evidence in here, either?"

"Inside job. A woman with a loaded gun can do a lot of damage."

"What kind of bullets they find in Proctor?"

Duval hesitated. "Fourtyfives. Three of 'em."

"Where were the other bodies found?"

Matt, once again, followed Duval's lead, this time through an elaborate dining room. What caught Matt's attention was that this room was ten times the size of his whole office in Dodge. A long table made of heavy curly maple, was the focal point. A blue vase in the center dripped brown and dried petals.

Stemmed crystal sparkled behind the protective glass of a side cabinet. Another, a china closet with glass windows, showed empty spaces where plates, cups, and saucers should have been.

"This is really gonna be bad, Marshal."

Duval opened another door and the stench of rotten meat flew out at Matt.

"This is where they found the cook. Mazzie was her name. Huge gal. Very good cook."

And after a few seconds Duval added, "So I hear."

It was a simple matter of will. Matt had to go through the door. If he ever hoped to find Kitty.

More dried blood, black and cracking, covered a stack of fine china still sitting in a sink full of slimy gray water. A wave of spatter crossed the cast iron stove. Serving bowls contained the remnants of a meal, worms and flies feasting now.

"Gal took three bullets. Drove her back toward that window there."

Shards of glass littered the floor. A crimson glow frosted the ragged slivers of glass still attached to the window.

"She bled out over there."

"Ya."

Blood.

Blood.

And more blood.

"Caliber?"

Fourtyfives."

Matt backed out of the narrow kitchen and closed the door.

"Why didn't anyone clean this up?"

Duval flashed his dark eyes at Matt.

"Why, Marshal, we knew you were coming and thought you'd want to see the carnage this Russell woman caused."

Perhaps it was an attempt at humor.

But the slender man's snide laugh negated that thought from Matt's mind.

"Sorry, Dillon. No relatives to take this on," Duval continued.

"If this place gets sold I pity the new owners. Don't think they'll ever get rid of this stink. Course," Duval put his large hands on his narrow hips, "don't think a whole lot of people could afford to buy a house the likes of this."

"The third body."

"Oh ya. The old lady. This Russell woman must be a cold bitch what she did to poor Adelia. That old woman couldn't even get out of bed by herself. Real piece of work this woman."

The fingers on Matt's right hand balled into a fist.

Then stretched out again.

"Bedroom's on the second floor."

The wide stairway curved in a gentle half circle, a dark colored carpet running up the center, until Matt stood thirty steps from the main floor. Soft to walk on. Absorbent of most sounds. If one kept to the middle.

"Horace's room is over there. Nothing went on in there. Old lady's is here."

Matt was hit full force with brightness. Airiness. Pale flesh colored walls, a touch of wallpaper in purples and pinks. Small carpets rested on the polished oak floor. Big windows, the heavy curtains pushed to the side.

Only the bed, a dark sleigh style, bore evidence of what had happened.

One large spot contrasted with the pristine white of the pillowcase.

"Took one shot. Must of put that barrel right between Adelia's eyes. If the old lady was awake to see..."

"Caliber?"

"Fourtyfive."

A glass sat on the side table. What water remained was moving.

"Servant's quarters?"

"Cook slept in a little room downstairs. Fat ox couldn't have made it up the stairs. This Russell woman was on the third floor."

Matt recalled the severe peak of the roof and the tiny dormer windows.

A narrow door, Matt thought at first it was a storage closet, led up a steep and extremely narrow flight of stairs. Matt resorted to going up using his hands almost as if he were climbing a ladder.

Barely enough light.

The stairs opened onto a narrow hallway that was lit by the small round windows on either end of the peak of the roof.

Duval opened one of four doors off the hall.

Matt stepped inside and immediately noticed white sheets covering a bed that took up the whole space of one wall. Neatly made up. A gray dress as drab as Dodge in winter lay over the bed. Tossed haphazardly, the pinafore attached to that ugly dress was both atop and beneath it at the same time. A white frilly cap sat on top of a severely chipped chest of drawers.

No blood.

There was some odor.

But not for the reasons on the first and second floors. Just stagnant air.

"Leave me. Please."

"I'll be in the buggy."

Duval closed the door.

_Kitty! _ Matt screamed inside his head.

_Where are you?_

Hollow.

Empty.

Alone.

He picked up the pillow. Her pillow. Put it to his face.

He wanted to taste her scent.

Revel in the familiarity it brought.

Feel the comfort.

_Are you dead? Are you alive?_


	21. Chapter 21

21 -

Duval and Heinlein

Tucked away down a narrow side street the saloon was nothing but an adobe with two wooden doors. One on the street side, the other behind the bar. A small kerosene lantern hung from a wire ceiling hook provided the only light.

A few tables were scattered about. Some in the center between the solid wooden door and the five foot bar. Others hidden in corners barely visible.

Duval entered, closed the door behind him, then stood for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the minimal light.

Tobias Heinlein was in the farthest corner. The darkest place.

Duval's chair creaked as he sat down.

"You're gonna follow this Dillon." Duval pulled a pre rolled curly from his breast pocket then stuck the end of it between his thin lips. And waited.

Heinlein struck a match and gave Duval a light.

"Son of a bitch is gonna be a problem."

Heinlein shook the short stick and the saloon returned to its former gloominess.

"How much?" Heinlein rested his elbows on the table.

"Always worried about money."

"Well, yah. I ain't got none. And I'm still waitin' on this other money you promised for doin the Proctor job."

"In time. Heard anything about the Russell woman?"

"Nope. She just up and disappeared. Kinda funny there's no word on the street about it."

Duval blew a long steady stream of smoke across the table. Directly at Heinlein.

"Ain't nothing funny about it. But that bitch did do us one good thing."

"What's that?"

"A good person to blame for those killings."

Heinlein snorted.

"Keep a tight tail on him. Don't let Dillon out of your sight."

"Sure, boss."


	22. Chapter 22

Nails

22 -

The boarding house on Daly Street was big and clean. And it was certainly in his price range—cheap. The twice daily meals were more than he expected and filling.

Even if he had to force himself to eat. And he did. At the end of each long day.

Matt didn't know exactly why, but Duval had granted his one request the second day after arriving in Houston. A key to the Proctor home.

After the mess in the house had been cleaned and windows opened to let in the fresh air he used it. Often.

He'd lay , face down, on Kitty's bed. It didn't matter that the air in the tiny room was still moist and hot. Or that his booted feet hung, toe down, over the foot of the bed. Or that his broad shoulders took up the complete width of the narrow mattress.

Kitty had slept here.

He wanted more than the cold memories of hot times. But this was all he got.

He needed Kitty. The living, breathing one that was the only person he could tell his problems to. The rigors of his job, the people he had to work with. The frustrations. The rare joys.

She molded to his soul as well as his body as she heard his complaints and sorrows.

She listened.

But he knew so little about her.

In this place, alone in her bed, he had time to reflect.

Had he ever given her a chance to vent? Or the freedom to talk about her past? Her heartache? Her delights? What she wanted out of her life? To tell him everything about herself that he could ever want to know?

Was it all about me?

And never her?

Could he have been that callous?

He knew the answer. Plain and simple.

Yes.

He could.

When he found her...if he found her, things would be different.

Silky hair. Soft skin, milk white breasts with rosy nipples made for his mouth and tongue to taste and tease.

Her hands knew how to soothe him. How to take his hard length and draw even more from it.

She welcomed him. Never refused. Guided him inside her. Met his every thrust with one of equal intensity.

Kitty.

He made a promise to himself. He would give as much as she did.

More.

The tumblers on the doorknob snicked metal on metal.

Matt struggled to get up, almost falling in his clumsiness.

The door shoved open just as he reached for his gun.

A dark apparition stood in the doorway. It wore a light flower print dress.

The whites of the eyes were drawn to the massive bulge that strained the cloth of his pants beneath his belt.

"Kitty misses you, too."

A moment of speechlessness followed before his mind started to work again.

"How'd you get in here?" Matt asked although he was more concerned that this slip of a black woman had seen his enormous need.

"Put that gun back in its place and I'll explain."

No drawl.

Every word pronounced as clearly as if she'd been born and raised in the North.

Slowly.

The gun sank into the holster.

As did his other big gun.

"You know where Kitty is?"

"My name is Shady McAllister and I know lots of things, Marshal Dillon." She stepped inside the room. "And so will you, in time. I need your help."

"Where's Kitty?"

Shady's bright white teeth glowed as she smiled. "Patience, Marshal, patience. Just know that she's safe. And I can't take you to her. It's just too risky. Duval's pet killer is following you."

"Duval." The word was an obscenity.

"Got him figured out, then. I'm glad. Don't ever trust him. Don't ever turn your back on him. He's in this mess up to his eyeballs."

"Who are you?"

His mind finally placed this girl as the one with the orange. Beneath the tree. On the corner.

Shady smiled more broadly this time as she reached into her left pocket and produced a three inch square piece of leather. She unfolded it and gave it to Matt.

"Shady McAllister

Federal Agent

Washington, D.C."

"What the …..."


	23. Chapter 23

Nails

23 -

Matt and Shady: the conversation continues

_No._

She said no.

But Kitty was fine.

Safe.

But he couldn't see her.

Not safe.

Enemies.

"Warden Haynes will be coming down here," Shady said calmly. "maybe, just maybe, we can work something out. But for now, you can't know where she is. Even I can't go there for fear Duval or Heinlein will get wind of her. Believe me Marshal," Shady moved three steps toward Matt and put her small hand on his arm, "this may be hard for you but at least she stands a chance of staying alive."

He nodded. He understood what the woman was saying to him. But he still wanted to see Kitty. Hold her. Feel the warmth of her living body against his own.

The absolute proof that she still lived.

"Tell me, tell me all of it." Matt stood taller, his shoulders even more broad than before. His face that of serious interrogator.

His marshal pose.

"In a nutshell the government wants to make sure its money goes to the right place."

"I don't understand."

"Proctor was the driving force for this ship channel. But there's been problems coming out of Galveston. Galveston's got clout. So do the the big banks here in Houston. They make their money off Galveston's shipping. But some of these guys are hedging their bets."

Matt thought for a moment.

"So Proctor got killed because of it."

"Yes, sir. Kind of threw this whole thing out of whack. I've been here for six months, same street corner, just getting the feel of the situation. But I never thought it would go this way."

Matt could not contain his laugh.

"Yup. Who'd suspect a nigger gal selling oranges for a spy." Shady's eyes twinkled.

"Did you see who came to the Proctor house the night he was killed?"

"Yup. But I wasn't inside the house like your Kitty was."

_Your Kitty._

_My Kitty._

"You noticed Proctor had company that night."

Matt shifted on his feet. "Wasn't hard to see."

"Funny, Duval never noticed. Never bothered to mention the glasses, the china, or the cigar butts in his report."

Matt wanted to ask Shady just how she knew all these details but decided against it. He had words to describe her: formidable, capable, dedicated.

Matt pursed his lips and spat out the words, "Just blamed Kitty for the whole damn thing."

"Convenient," Shady said. " But I don't think it was supposed to go down quite that way. I got her out of the house just in time or she'd of had three bullets in her, too."

Matt shivered at the thought. If he'd seen her blood sprinkled across this room...

"So," Matt started, "who is Duval working for?"

A guttural laugh. "Probably Duval."

"What are we gonna do?"

"I'm glad you said 'we', Marshal. Cause I can use all the help I can get...and Kitty can, too."


	24. Chapter 24

Nails

24

Duval and Heinlein

Duval let the heels of his shoes drag across the gritty floor of the CowDung Saloon. Even in the usual dim light he could see the shape of Heinlein standing at the bar. It was high time he had a talk with this man.

"I want the low down on Dillon. What's he been up to?" Duval asked as he placed his own elbows next to the only other person at the bar.

Heinlein looked to his right, seeing no-one, before he brought the frothy foam topped stein of beer to his lips. "Been busy, that one."

Extraction. Slow. Painful. Heinlein never volunteered information, made the asker work for it.

"How so?"

"Followed that damned son of a bitch all the way to Galveston Island."

After a long silence Duval had to say something. "And?"

"The old boy paid your buddy Ormsby a good long visit."

"Whiskey."

The pock marked bartender moved fast. Duval knew it was the tone of his voice that had made that happen not the fact he wore apoliceman's uniform. At least somebody moved fast when he wanted them to.

"You check on Ormsby after?"

Heinlein chuckled. "That old letch was shakin in his fancy black shoes. Thought he was gonna piss himself."

Duval knew for a fact it was Heinlein's presence that caused Ormsby's distress. Ormsby knew exactly what Heinlein's function was. Seen it first hand in the Proctor house. Did piss himself then and a whole lot more. It was funny to see that man sob.

Heinlein's beer was half gone by the time he spoke again.

"If I were you, Manny, I'd pay your Ormsby a personal visit. Remind him what he's s'posed to say. That banker of your's, too."

"He got to SanMarcos? How the hell...?"

"That Dillon may be a prairie hick marshal but that old boy's got some serious smarts to him."

"Almost seems," Duval said, lost within his own thoughts, "that somebody's feeding him some information."

"Don't look at me, Manny." Heinlein stood up straight and faced Duval straight on.

No, it wouldn't be Tobias Heinlein. This cold blooded killer standing in front of him didn't have the scruples to play both ends toward the middle. "I know it wasn't you. I was just thinking out loud."

"But who could it be?" Heinlein returned to resting his elbows on the bar. "Ormsby and SanMarcos wouldn't dare. They stand to loose either way if this shit comes out."

Duval's head hurt. He hadn't even touched his whiskey. Wouldn't. A fat fly was bathing in the amber liquid trying frantically to crawl up the sides of the glass.

"Any word on that red headed bitch?"

"Same's before. She's hiding in a deep hole. If I can't find her, I sure as hell know this Dillon can't."

"Tobias, I got a bad feeling about this."

"When am I gonna get my money?"

"Whatever goes down, I want you to kill that red head. And Dillon. Understand?"

Heinlein pulled the corner of his lips into a sneer.

"Sure, boss."


	25. Chapter 25

-25-

Duval's Arrest

"This won't be easy, Marshal." Shady, dressed in a light blue skirt and a white long sleeve blouse with a high neck, looked all the prim and proper black lady of class.

Except for the short nosed fourtyfive caliber she carried on her right hip.

"The back door covered?" Matt looked down on Shady. He already knew the answer but he had to ask. Efficiency was this woman's middle name.

"Delany's got it."

Matt, Shady, and two other federal agents stood in the middle of the deserted street, the Cow Dung Saloon only fifty steps away.

Alive would be good. But dead was totally Duval's choice.

"Sure be a bonus if we got this Heinlein character."

"Well," Shady started walking, her pistol in her hands, "if he's in there we'll get two for one. Delany, don't let anybody out that back door."

The dark haired officer nodded then slipped into the narrow alley.

Cow Dung. Matt could only speculate why any business owner, especially a saloon proprietor, would want that name hung above the entrance. Perhaps this person didn't want a lot of patrons. Or maybe the owner was in league with the criminal element of Houston. There certainly were not cattle roaming the streets like in Dodge City.

Matt put those thoughts from his mind as he got closer to the paint chipped door of the saloon.

The other agent, Forbes, followed, then came Matt and Shady.

Tornado.

Twisties as Festus liked to call them.

The inside moved, shadowy forms darted one way or another, tables and chairs crashed to the floor with dull thuds as the law enforcement trio's three pair of eyes adjusted to the darkened interior.

"Duval," Matt yelled toward a lean form standing next to the bar, "hands up. You're under arrest."

Two shots.

From the alley behind the saloon.

Forbes gathered the bartender and the three other patrons into a corner.

Duval's hands where half way up but he hadn't moved from the bar except to face the intruders.

"Looky here, ain't you that nigger bitch sits on a corner sellin oranges? What you doin holdin a gun on a white man?"

Shady pulled out her identification with one hand and held it in front of Duval's eyes.

"No. No. Can't be."

"It is," Matt grunted. "Where's Heinlein?"

Duval let his facial muscles sag into a nondescript lack of expression. "Who?"

"You're going to jail, Duval." Shady held her head up proudly. "Going down for killing Horace and Adelia Proctor and Mazzie."

"Got no proof."

"Oh?" Shady smiled, her big front teeth adding extra light to the room, "I wouldn't say that. Got all those visits you made to Proctor written down for the last six months. Even the night he was killed."

Duval scowled.

"Let's go." Matt was about to put a handcuff on Duval's wrist when the man sidestepped.

"You can't arrest me, I'm the Chief of Police."

"Not anymore. And yes we can."

"No,"

"We will."

Matt grabbed Duval's right wrist and twisted the arm behind the man and slapped a cuff on him.

Duval, bent over the bar, spat out a string of curse words.

Hands both cuffed, Matt pulled him up and propelled him to the door.

"Ain't never gona see that red head again, Marshal. I'll make sure of it."

"Go," Matt pushed him.

"Tasty little thing that Kitty."

One hard shove and Duval was out the door and into the light.

"Bumpkin marshal. You're runnin with the big boys now."

Matt shared a quick glance with Shady.

"Can't prove nothin."

"Forbes, check on Delany."

A few moments later the blond agent came back. "Dead. Delany's dead."

Duval started to laugh. "She's gona be dead, too."

Matt slammed a fist into Duval's chin and the man collapsed to the ground.


	26. Chapter 26

Nails

26 -

Matt and Shady in front of the Judge

"Unless you produce a witness Duval will be released. You know that's the only way a preliminary hearing for a Federal Indictment can be carried out. No hearsay. Got to come from the source, in this case, the only witness."

Thibideaux reminded Matt of Samuel Tarly. Pompous. Much too secure in the letter of the Law to allow any creativity. Or bending. Or any common sense.

"But Tobias Heinlein is still loose," Shady was at the point of whining. "We know Duval wants her dead, she's the only witness, and this Heinlein is just the man to do it. He already killed a Federal agent."

"That's all good and well, but it has nothing to do with Duval. Either you produce this witness or I have no choice but to let him go and your Feral indictment with it."

"And all my work will go down the back house hole."

Thibideaux raised his index finger at Shady. "I will not take that tone from you, missy."

"Give us a minute, Judge."

Matt ushered Shady into the outside hall.

"Matt..."

"I know." He ran his fingers through his graying hair.

"We can protect her. I've got the men. Haynes is here, he'll help."

Matt wanted to spit. "Haynes isn't savvy. He runs a women's prison for God's sake."

"I'll get more men."

"Do we have enough time? And where will these men come from. Where do their loyalties lie?" He dreaded to think just how far Duval's arm reached in Houston.

"Oh, Matt. I know how you feel but we have to do this." And after a very short pause she added, "You know Kitty will want to do this. She had a good relationship with Adelia Proctor and getting the man that killed the old lady would give some kind of peace."

Yup. Kitty would definitely want to proceed with this hearing. Even if it meant risking her life. "I know. I know."

Just how many times had he been caught in this situation? Five? Fifty?

Only a handful ever concerned Kitty Russell. But they were the worst.

But this one...

There was no allowance for error.

He didn't like it. Not one little bit.


	27. Chapter 27

Nails

27-

Courthouse

Matt's heart raced faster than a stampeding antelope. But unlike the antelope, Matt had no idea where his enemy was coming from. That worried him.

Three days since he and Shady had talked with Thibideaux. Three days to line up the protection Kitty would need as she came out of hiding to appear in this three story courthouse not far from the bayou that was the problem in this situation. Three days to get the Federal lawyer to come down to Houston. Three days...

But here he was. In the courtroom. Each of the lower sides of his suit jacket pulled behind the irons in his double holster. Two guns. Twelve bullets. More in his belt. Playing the role of a predator. Checking out every shimmer of dust as it floated in the still air. Turning toward noises that came from the dried out wooden benches as they cracked in the Texas heat. So that Kitty would not become a victim.

It was early.

Duval and the other two wouldn't be brought in for another twenty-five minutes.

Kitty? He didn't rightly know how long he'd have to wait.

But in the mean time Matt wanted to see everyone who entered this courtroom. Check for hateful thoughts, vengeful expressions, lack of forgiveness displayed openly.

Itchy fingers.

But mostly he wanted to catch every second of Kitty's entrance. Bask in it. Refresh his mind as to how she really looked after a whole year's absence. Knowing that soon he may get a chance to speak and touch her.

The door opened and a lean man with cold dark eyes entered. Samuel Graystock. More white hairs amongst the few that remained on his head.

Matt glared. Graystock glared. There was hate behind each pair of eyes.

Matt hoped his glare was enough to convey his feelings for this man. He'd never forget the vision of Graystock taking Kitty's wrists and slapping a pair of cuffs on her. The snapping sound as the metal locks clicked. The roughness as this man pulled her to a horse oblivious of the dried blood that had recently coursed down her skirt and blouse. Oblivious to the pain she so obviously felt.

Hate was much too mild of a word.

But what was he doing here? How did he find out about this hearing? Was he after more revenge?

Graystock wasn't wearing a badge, hadn't even when he killed John Black and took Kitty prisoner. But he stood like it was still attached to his chest. Proud.

To that, Matt could relate.

Graystock pulled his suit jacket aside to reveal a shoulder harness.

Cold.

Like the frozen Kansas prairie. Seeping into every portion of his body.

Graystock sat on the right hand side of the courtroom. Just like in St. Louis.

Matt forced himself to look away from the man. Made himself, once again, scan the interior of the room. He focused on the balcony this time. Only three rows of hard wooden seats, no more than pews minus the church. He had a thought, anyone who gained access to the balcony would cause the dried out wooden floor to creak so loudly even a deaf person could hear it.

He'd checked the door to the balcony. Fifteen minutes ago. It was locked. Even he could not get up those stairs.

There was a commotion out in the hall. Women. Two. They were crying. Pleading. To be allowed inside.

Forbes, his deep timbre easily identified, was telling the women that their attendance came with strict rules. There would be no crying. No shouting. No pleading. No demonstrations of any kind or they would be escorted out of the proceedings.

The door opened and two fashionably dressed women entered. Hands, handkerchiefs clutched within, were daubing at red rimed eyes. Their heads were high. Proud.

Wives, Matt assumed, of Ormsby and SanMarcos. As far as Matt knew, Duval wasn't married.

That was a blessing. For the woman.

Judge Thibideaux, robes conspicuously absent, stomped through the back door, stormed past the raised judges' desk and took a seat behind a long, narrow table. Seven chairs, all empty, were on the opposite side of the table.

Matt checked his timepiece.

Five minutes.

Three men. City slickers in the latest suits designed for the upwardly moving lawyer entered and took their seats across from the judge. They opened portfolios and spread the papers on the desk.

Another click of metal and the squeak of wood caught Matt's attention. Duval, clean shaven, came through the door ushered by a man in a dark blue policeman's uniform. Four more men followed.

One, Ormsby, was shaking so much his double chin quivered violently as the guard lead him to his seat. The other, SanMarcos, held his head high. Also ushered in by his own private guard.

Shady slipped into the courtroom and stood beside Matt. She never stopped scanning the room as she whispered. "Wait'll you see our prosecutor. Scary man."

Matt didn't feel the need to respond.

Shady was right.

Benson vonBohning looked more like a bulldog than a man. Short. Overly broad shoulders for the slender hips. Jowly cheeks covered with immaculately trimmed beard and side burns. The darkest eyes. Round. Piercing. Intense.

The aisle thundered with each step vonBohning took on his way to the front of the courtroom.

_Intimidation._

"Mr. Prosecutor," Thibideaux began, his voice a work in formality, "you may proceed with your complaint against these gentlemen." The judge never wasted a glance at Duval, Ormsby, or SanMarcos, or any of their lawyers. Simply kept focussed on vonBohning's incisive posture.

"Thank you."

Matt inhaled sharply.

The voice did not match the physical properties of the man.

High tenor. Almost feminine. Kitty's voice was lower than this man's.

No wonder the man's actions had to be so stylized.

"I have a long list of complaints against these men. Mr. Duval will be the recipient of a few of his own. Those, of course, are much more serious."

"And," Thibideaux interjected, "you have proof of these accusations?"

"Of course."

"Let's hear them."

vonBohning opened the attache case and pulled out a thick sheave of papers.

Thibideaux's back sunk into the cushion on his chair, his shoulder's slumping in the process.

Matt appraised the inner courtroom without fail. After two hours vonBohning finally collected his papers and put them back into his attache case. Matt ceased to hear what the man had said after the initial first minutes. A drone. He wasn't interested.

"I'm a country lawyer first, and a judge second," Thibideaux began as he stood up. "You have presented a wide assortment of accusations and very little physical proof. Before I let this case continue to a higher court, I must see and hear the proof of all of this."

Those words Matt heard.

Loud and clear.

"If these gentlemen," Thibideaux's hand floated toward Ormsby and SanMarcos, "decide to turn against Duval..." He let the end of his words dangle.

Matt envisioned a fat orange carrot on the end of a heavy fishing line.

But SanMarcos and Ormsby remained silent.

"Two witnesses. One the government's own spy. The other, a criminal,"

Matt flinched.

"But one whom you attest was present at the murders and saw with her own eyes these men. I must hear these women. Now."

vonBohning gave a sidelong nod.

"Shady McAllister, special agent, come forward please."

Shady looked into Matt's eyes before she began the short trek to the front of the courtroom.

It was beginning.

Matt couldn't help but tense even more.

Old ways died hard, especially when so much was at stake.

Shady didn't back down. Simply looked Thibideaux in the eye and gave her testimony.

"Feds sure are scraping the bottom," Thibideaux mumbled as Shady came back to stand beside Matt. "Hope this other witness proves to be more credible."

Matt heard the creaking sound of dry wood moving against dry wood. He looked around. People, the few sitting in the courtroom, were changing position from one butt cheek to the other.

Graystock sat straighter, his head cocked to the side.

Kitty Russell, dressed in plain gray skirt and blouse, followed Stuart Haynes into the courtroom.

Matt stopped breathing.

Shady put her hand on his arm to steady him.

Kitty's hair was as red as ever but her face was very pale. No rosy cheeks and no crimson lips enhanced by a little pot of color.

Thin.

More so than when he'd last seen her a year ago.

"Is this woman under your custody?" Thibideaux glared at Haynes.

"Yes, sir, she is."

Thibideaux searched for hand cuffs, seeing none, he gave Haynes another questioning look.

"She's not a flight risk, Your Honor."

"What did you see in the Proctor house?"

Kitty opened her mouth to speak but the sound of gunfire filled the room instead.


	28. Chapter 29

- 29-

Matt and Kitty

"What say we get out this accursed city now that you're a free woman."

Her right leg languidly rested across Matt's thigh and her head lay within the crook of his left arm. Savoring the closeness of his body, Kitty Russell forced her eyes to open.

That ruggedly handsome face of his was shadowed with a sandy stubble. She let her fingers slide sensuously over his bare chest on their way to gently stroke his face.

She'd missed that face.

"Ya." A resigned and tired answer. "I hate this town."

The high pitched friction of at least two pieces of metal sounded as Matt inched his body even closer to her's.

"Got any idea," a faint light twinkled in the depths of his baby blue eyes, "where we should go?"

She didn't know what time it was and really didn't care. She had no idea how long they had lain together but knew it was long enough for both of them to get fully reacquainted. But her mind, ever so akin to his way of thinking over the past nineteen years, led her to believe that he already had an inkling of where he might want to go. That grin. The way he said the words.

"No."

She was curious. But she could also play his game by letting him take the lead.

"Suppose," she hoped her wide-eyed smoke-screen of innocence safely concealed the curiosity she really felt, "you tell me where you want to go, Matt."

"North. Then West," he wound a free hand around a length of auburn tress, "there's this little valley in southern Colorado. Can only get there by horse and wagon. It's so green,"

She watched the joy come out as every muscle in his body softened.

"Mild in the winter. Quiet. Only neighbors are in the next valley over."

_He did have it planned._

"We're not going back to Dodge, then?"

She noted the return of rigidity in his clamped jaw. The stiffening of his body that came from the mere mention of Dodge City.

"Nope," he uttered through clenched teeth.

_Doc._

_Festus._

_Hannah._

All three passed in a parade of faces, voices, and actions through her memory as clearly as if she'd seen them just yesterday.

It would nice to see Doc again. He wasn't getting any younger. Festus' hill talk was a pleasant reminder that he was a dear and loyal friend. Hannah. The capable woman had stepped in and ran the Long Branch when Kitty's freedom was replaced with iron bars.

Matt threw back the light sheet that covered them both and rolled out of the bed relieving the bed springs of his weight.

Those same springs, Kitty could not contain the contentment or the satisfaction, had sung quite a different tune through most of the night.

She sighed with physical exhaustion.

_Needs._

They were powerful and demanding.

For both of them.

"But what about your job?"

She watched him pull on his drawers.

Thrust his arms into the sleeves of his sun bleached blue shirt and began to button .

"Not a U.S. Marshal anymore."

Two holes, one atop the other, were the only remaining evidence of what used to be on the left side of his shirt.

Over his heart.

"B..but,"

He'd resigned before. More than once.

But each time he'd come back to the badge. He couldn't stay away.

"What will you do?"

Matt sat on the bed and kitty rolled into him.

"Remember that time we were eating at DelMonico's and you said it would be great if the steak you were eating hadn't walked all the way from Texas?"

She put her hand on his back and braced herself. She remembered. Right down to the dry toughness of the seared piece of beef.

"Managed to save a little money. Enough to buy a good bull and a few cows."

"You a rancher?"

It wasn't totally out of the question.

Just a bit absurd.

He leaned over her and kissed her on the lips.

"I'm sure of this, Kitty. Absolutely."

"B..but why? Why now?"

Matt turned aside to study the toes of his faded, dried out dun colored boots. He folded his hands across his lap. Breathed deeply.

"I learned a lot in the last year. Some of those lessons I didn't like, not one little bit. It made me think about what was really important."

Cornflower blue eyes once more focused on her.

The glint was gone.

Only a sadness lingered.

"Oh I know you've been given a reprieve on your sentence. I know all those people were only doing what was expected of them during your trial in St. Louis. But,"

She felt his despair.

Anticipated what he was about to say.

"I just don't feel the same way about the Law anymore."

He'd said it.

She had no words to soothe him. Could only listen in silence.

Support him.

"You're the only thing, the only one, who's important to me now. When I think of the time I wasted... Now its your turn and we're not turning back."

"Oh Matt."


	29. Chapter 28

Nails

28 -

Battle in the Courtroom

Matt caught a nondescript shape from the corner of his right eye. By the time he looked toward the balcony he recognized the figure as that of a rangy man with a gun in either hand.

Bright lights and whiffs of smoke accompanied the earsplitting sound of gun fire.

Matt heard the bullets hit their quarry. Some blasted into the wooden railing sending pieces flying against the floor or wall. Others made a sucking sound as they violated supple human bodies.

He also heard screams. The outcry of surprise as the bullets slammed into their victims. The frantic movements accompanied by the heavy thuds as bodies fell to the floor.

_How?_

The question lingered for a split second. There was no time for reasoning except that the balcony was presumed to be empty.

By him.

It was not.

Shady whimpered and dropped to the floor.

Gun in his right hand, Matt raised it to take aim amidst the flailing bullets, and fired.

Twice.

The killer dropped both guns. They fell over the edge of the balcony to bounce from the back of one wooden bench to the hard wood floor. The man clutched his stomach and stood perfectly still.

Matt was familiar with the expression on the shooter's face. He'd seen it. Often.

It was that space of time when the person realized they'd been shot and that they were dead.

It had to be Heinlein, Matt thought as he watched the man double over and take a swan dive off the balcony. A cracking sound broke through the whimpers of women and the moaning of the men as Heinlein's body came to rest across the back of a bench.

_Kitty!_

Ignoring Shady, Matt ran to the front of the room.

He couldn't see her.

Duval was still in his chair except that he was slumped, face down, on the table with a growing patch of red streaming from a hole in the back of his head.

Thibideaux sat on the floor, back braced against the wall, embracing his chest with both his bloody hands. A trickle of bright red oozed from the left side of his mouth to make its way down his chin. His breathing, a wetness to it, was sporadic. His eyes, wide open, had a glaze over them.

The lawyers, all four of them, were on the floor along with Ormsby and San Marcos. As far as Matt could tell none of them were hurt.

Graystock, gun drawn and aimed at nothing in particular, met Matt at the railing. In that split second of time Matt made the decision to trust Graystock. He didn't have time to weigh the consequences.

_Kitty!_

Stuart Haynes was on the floor with blood pouring from a wound in his left shoulder.

Not caring about the injured man, Matt heaved him aside.

Kitty, face down, was lying very still, blood staining the back of the gray blouse.

Sheer black terror swept though him as he knelt beside her and gathered her into his arms and pulled her into the warmth of his body. Rocking gently, he fought to stop the tears that leaked from his eyes and down his cheeks.

"Kitty," he heard his own voice shout.

"Ugh,"

Kitty pushed against Matt's chest and gasped for air.

She opened her eyes, "Matt." Her hands crawled upward and came to rest on his face.

"Kitty," Shady, holding a handkerchief to her bleeding cheek, knelt beside the pair.

Matt ran his hand over Kitty's body feeling where the blood was pooled. Dreading what he might find.

"Matt, I'm not hit. Haynes pushed me down so hard I got the wind knocked out of me. This is his blood, not mine."

Matt didn't let go of her, rocked her even more. Held her tighter.

"I'm so glad to see you, Cowboy," Kitty used a thumb to wipe an errant stream from his cheek.

"Some agent you turned out to be," vonBohning was standing over Matt, Kitty, and Shady, his voice discernibly higher than at the outset of the hearing.

"Duval and Thibideaux are dead," Shady announced. "Come with me, Benson, I need to talk with you." Shady grabbed hold of vonBohning's arm and dragged him away.

"Kitty, Kitty, I've missed you so much."

"I know, Matt. I missed you too."


End file.
